"'Tis not for gentle ears to hear the insult that began it." Over the years, Valentine had often regaled me with tales of the ungentle manly brawls he'd witnessed Logan fight in. That this latest one was too heinous for Valentine to describe told me much. He smiled slightly. "But I've not been taken down, as you can see. I am yet standing." Glancing from me to his friends, he added, "And I'm late to court."
That nudged my memory. "I am sent to tell you that my father's nearly ready.
"Then, because his face remained uncomprehending, I said, "You did say that he could ride to court this morning in your coach."
"I did." His turn to frown.
He knew as well as I did that my father's health had faltered these past months. It was not common knowledge, but I'd shared with Valentine how I had seen my father several times appear to lose his breath while walking, and once stumble in the road, and once drop in a near faint after a long day of business, which he blamed upon a want of sleep.
I could feel my temper rising for the second time this morning. "You promised him." I let the sharper edges of my tone show through. "A promise is a promise."
"So it is. But thanks to Logan, we've no room, the coach is full. My friends are injured and must ride within. They are the sons of noblemen," he told me.
"But my father does not merit your attention." I did not try to hide the sarcasm that edged my tone.
"I've angered you."
"You are not often selfish. Nor did the favor of noblemen's sons used to make you forget your word."
"Phoebe." His eyes asked for my understanding. "They are also friends of my lord Rochester, my patron. I would lose my place at court were I to leave them unattended. And if I lose my place at court, what future could there be for us?" He bent to kiss my cheek but I was turning from him, so the touch was brief. He told me, "Give your father my regrets. He'll understand."
He did, of course. My father was an understanding man. He stood with me outside our door and watched the coach departing, having heard it pass. It traveled down the Close, past Logan's house, and out the gate into the labyrinth of lanes and streets that lay beyond.
"Ah, well," my father told me, "I've no doubt your uncle at St. Paul's will have room in his coach for me. I have time left to catch him, and 'tis not so far to walk."
Too far, still, for my comfort.
Pushing down my disappointment in what Valentine had done, I said, "I'll come with you." And when my father looked at me as though I were proposing to run off to the New World, I added, "Only to St. Paul's. It has been too long since I've seen my uncle."
"And how will you get safely home?"
"He has so many servants, one of them can be my escort." He agreed to this, to my relief, but only after he took from his pocket the crisp copy of his almanac. My aunt considered almanacs a needless waste of pennies, but my father bought a new one every year, to guide his actions. At the stationer's, he'd carefully survey the different almanacs, each named for their compiler. His favorites were those of one Mr. Parker, whose predictions for the year were drawn more closely from astrology and who, beside the listing for each month, with all its days of feasts and festivals and forecasts of the weather, left a blank page for the user's daily notes and jottings. Mr. Parker's almanac provided tables of the tides, the time each day of sunrise, and the aspects of the moon. But to my father, the most useful feature of the little book was that it warned him in advance which dates would bring him luck, and which he should approach with caution.
"No," my father said, "there is no D' for danger marked beside this day, so we may safely walk abroad."
I made no reply at first, because I'd been distracted by a black and white bird settling on the tiles of the roof directly opposite. A magpie. My Aunt Agnes, had she been here, would have thrown a stone to chase it off, and then she'd have recited prayers to counteract its evil. As I met the bird's unblinking eyes, I understood that impulse. But it was only a bird, and to imagine it as more than that—to think it truly might be an ill omen—would be like thinking Mr. Parker's almanac was accurate.
My father nudged me. "Phoebe? Did you hear me? Mr. Parker says today will bring us no misfortune."
"Good." I smiled, and linked my arm with his, as much to steady him as from affection.
But as we walked on, I couldn't help but feel the black eyes of that lurking magpie watching us, as steady as a stone.
