document between her hands, almost afraid to break the untidy blob of sealing wax. She had saved it, like the juiciest plum in the basket. She had to admit that.
Madam.
What can I say to you?
I promised to come shortly, but I dally here on urgent printing business, which I must attend to, for it is my livelihood. Probably you think yourself well rid of me — or would do, save I owe you money. That will make me welcome, naturally. Not that I think you mercenary — but a debt paid is a great relief between friends, obliterating any occasion for broody thoughts to fester in the creditor.
I promised to come to you; come I shall. Pray you, send me a word of forgiveness and say if the little maid suits.
Yr servant, GJ
Juliana made up her mind not to answer it.
A day later she wrote back. Only to give him news of the maid, Catherine.
By return — it was difficult to tell, with the meanderings of carriers — Gideon Jukes scrawled off at her again.
Oh madam, madam, madam, madam!
Now I have had your letter, the one which begins, 'Captain Jukes, we are obliged to you for remembering us.'
Pish, what is this 'we'? Do you include yr children, yr household in general — cook, groom, bootboy, maid (lady's), maid (kitchen), maid (parlour, the one with the fabulously turned ankles), yr fat sow in the outhouse, and the little frowsty dog, Tousle, who lies by the hearth? Or, if he can climb up there unobserved, he lies in the good chair, with the leather back and brass studs, upon one of your fine stumpwork cushions.
I did not write to them (though I cherish your children, for your sake, and am glad that the little maid does well with you).
Now I have you. (I can hear you squealing 'But I have no dog — and if I did, I would not call him Tousle!') Fortunate for me, since that blackguard Tousle nips legs and rolls in all the muck that he can find, yet I would be compelled — were he yours, madam — to ingratiate myself by praising him.
You have written too little. I am afraid that if I leave your black jot upon a table, I shall mistake it for a beetle and squash it with my thumb.
I for my part have written too much. ('And a great nonsensical ramble!' niggles My Lady). You must think it was a lie, when I claimed my work detained me. Well, here I am in the print shop, where my apprentice Miles is turning the great press, while I must supervise in case he mis-orders the pages or nips his fingers. That can be done with harsh words and the occasional smart biff, in between the natural kindliness with which he is cajoled every five minutes. This leaves me four minutes now and then for correspondence. ('Faugh! Love letters!' cries Miles in disgust — 'Receipts for our ink and paper,' reply I, with noble patience. I have been fifteen, his age, with all its faults.)
Enough, fool! I shall come to you on Thursday.
Tr servant, GJ
Post script. Written two hours later. I am sending you by a separate package Golden Eye Ointment for Valentine, since you wrote that he was troubled with red eyes. This is the best ocular salve, according to regular advertisements in the Public Corranto, the News Letter to Trust. The advertisements are extremely expensive, so you know these claims must be true. If the packet survives robbery and the pot survives shattering and the unction survives heat, cold, jolts upward, circular motions, and downward thrusts of the carrier's satchel, then if Val does not screw up his eyes and go blue when you advance on him bearing ointment upon your maternal finger, the medicament may do him some good.
Juliana would burn this mad letter too. Well, she would once she had read it again and smiled over its foolishness a few more times. A wife should never keep letters that might annoy her husband.
That Thursday, Gideon Jukes came to her, true to his word.
The boys had been taken by Catherine Keevil over to the farm, where it was said that a foal had just been born. Juliana was alone in her parlour. She heard Gideon arrive, but did not run out eagerly. He came politely into the parlour, guessing where to find her.
'I have put your money on the table.'
Let us hope no foul-minded churchwarden hears that! 'Thank you.'
'No, I must thank you.' He seemed subdued. If it were Tom or Val, Juliana would be suspicious he was sickening. His face looked drawn. He seemed like a man who had been thinking too much; Juliana recognised it, for so had she. 'This is a good solution, I am glad I thought of it. I am under a very great obligation..'
When he tailed off, Juliana provided a succinct report on how she found the girl, Catherine. 'She is bright, helpful, easy to instruct, without needing harsh words or biffs — ' She had not meant to allude to his silly letter. She cast down her eyes. 'She sleeps on Mistress Anne's truckle bed in the garret; she eats and prays with us. I am happy to have her in my household; she is glad to have been given a home. Be easy in your mind, Captain. I shall treat her kindly.'
Gideon had remained standing. Now his chin came up. He looked at Juliana very directly, then asked without preamble, 'Will you be kind to me?'
She made no false pretence of misunderstanding. 'You know that cannot be.'
'When did you last see your husband?' Unbeknown to Gideon, the wording of that question took Juliana straight back to her unpleasant examination at Haberdashers Hall. It changed her willingness to answer. Automatically she was reduced to pinching her lips like a stubborn prisoner. 'Will he not come to you?' demanded Gideon, bitterly. 'Will he not summon you to him?'
Juliana stayed silent, caught in her need to protect Lovell and his whereabouts. This was the result of war: she could never risk anyone on the opposite side knowing too much and making further accusations against him.
'Nothing to say?'
It was hard enough to bear feeling forgotten and abandoned by Orlando; now she had an offer of friendship from a man to whom she was attracted, but she could not accept. Juliana's position was impossible. 'I am a married woman. Do not chastise me for my constancy'
'Oh I can never do that.' Gideon flayed himself. 'Not when, if it were ever my place to deserve it, I should hope for the same constancy towards me.'
Juliana smiled sadly. 'I think that would not be hard to give.' Gideon huffed. She rose from her chair. They were extremely still now. 'You must not write to me.'
'No.' Gideon knew what he had been trying to do in his letters. He feared what he had indeed done. He did not repent, though he would not repeat it.
'You must leave now, Captain Jukes.' Gideon looked rebellious. Juliana nearly panicked. 'You must! Merely to be here could cause comment. We live in a world of renewed morality. Indeed, I hear there is a new Act against Adultery, Incest and Fornication.'
'I am not planning incest!' snarled Gideon.
'Nor I adultery — it is a felony; the penalty is death!'
'For both parties.'
'I see you read it too.'
'I keep up with the news.'
'Ah, you are a good citizen.'
'You do not care for this putrid Act of Parliament, madam? Plenty of people ignore it.'
'And in doing so, they cause misery — to themselves and those around them. I have to take care for my children as well as myself — and since you will not, Captain Jukes, it seems I must care for you too.'
He seemed to accept this. With painful formality, they moved from the parlour and across the kitchen to the door. Juliana stepped outside first, looking for space in case an attempt was made to touch her. But Gideon left a clear yard of air between them.
'Is this what you want, Juliana?'
