He settled himself a little deeper into his chair, as if he would dig his heels into the Turkey rug.
“Once again, I ask you to adopt him and make him your heir.”
“And once again, I tell you I will not.”
“Now that I am bidden to court—” she began.
“He is no more my son than he was before. And I doubt you were bidden.”
“He has been educated at the best schools in London, he will eat his dinners at the Inns of Court, he is being raised as an English gentleman by the family that you chose for him. You can have nothing against him.”
“I have nothing against him,” he agreed. “I am sure he is being raised well. You left him with a family of high morals and open hearts. He can visit you in London if you wish—but you may not go to the warehouse and see them, his foster family. You may not disturb them or distress them. That was agreed.”
She folded her lips on an angry retort. “I’ve no wish to see them. Why would I go downriver to a dirty wharf? I don’t wish to speak about them, I never even think about them! It is Matteo! We are talking about my son, Matteo…” She put her hand to her heart.
Unmoved, he watched her dark eyes glisten with tears.
“I have sworn that unless you make him your adopted son and heir, I will conceive no other,” she reminded him. “My door will stay locked as we grow old, childless. I will never disinherit my boy. You will never have a legitimate son if you do not first give my son your name. You will die without a legitimate son and heir!”
He barely stirred in his chair, though she had raised her voice to him. “You do know that I have rights to your body by law?” he confirmed. “But—as it happens—I do not assert my rights. There was never any need for you to lock your bedroom door. I don’t want to come in.”
“If you want to live like a priest!” she flamed out at him.
“Rather a priest than a fool,” he replied calmly.
She put her hand to the back of her neck, pinning back one of the dark ringlets that fell over her collar. She made her voice warm and silky. “Some would say you are a fool not to desire me…”
He looked at the flames of the fire, blind to the seductive gesture. “I was led down that road once,” he said gently. “Not again. And you’re what? Forty-five? I doubt you could give me a son.”
“I’m forty-two,” she snapped. “I could still have a child!”
He shrugged. “If I die without an heir, then so be it. I will not give my honorable name to another man’s son. An unknown man at that.”
She gritted her teeth, and he watched her fight her temper. She managed to smile. “Whatever you wish, husband. But Matteo has to have a place of his own. If he cannot be an Avery of Northside Manor, then he has to be da Picci of Somewhere.”
“He can be da Picci of Anywhere; but not here. I have nothingagainst the boy, and nothing against you, Livia. I acknowledge you as my wife and him as your son. You won my good name when you deceived and married me, but that was my own folly and I have paid for it. Your son will not enter into my estate, but he is free to make his own fortune if he can, or batten off you if he cannot.”
“If you’re still thinking of her and her child…”
His face showed no emotion. “I have asked you not to speak of her.”
“But you think of her! Your great love!”
“Every day,” he conceded with a smile, as if it made him happy. “I never pray without naming her. I shall think of her until I die. But I promised her that I would not trouble her. And neither will you.”
BOSTON, NEW ENGLAND, SPRING 1685
Ned Ferryman stood on the jumble of quays and piers and wharves of Boston harbor, his collar turned against the cold wind, watching his barrels of herbs—dried sassafras, black cohosh roots, and ginseng leaves—roll down the stone quay and up the gangplank to the moored ship. Six barrels were already stowed belowdecks, and Ned squinted through the hatch to make sure that they were lashed tight and covered with an oilskin.
Beside him on the quayside the master of the ship laughed shortly. “Not to worry, Mr. Ferryman, they’re safely aboard.” He glanced down at Ned’s worn leather satchel and the small sack of his goods. “Is this all you have for your cabin? No trunks?”
“That’s all.”
The cabin boy from the ship came running down the gangplank and scooped up the sack. Ned slung the satchel around his shoulder.
“You’ll have heard the king’s dead?” the captain asked. “I was thefirst ship to bring the news. I shouted it the moment we threw a line to shore. Who’d have thought a king that lived so wild would die in his own bed? God bless King Charles, lived a rogue and died a papist. His brother James will have nipped on the throne by the time we get home.”
“Only if they crown him,” Ned remarked skeptically. “James the papist? And that papist wife alongside him?”