“They sound like they were very devoted parents.”
Ellen nodded, still absently tracing the gilt title. “They were. But Kit hasn’t painted since they died. Not anything. He says he’s too busy, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
“He does seem very busy,” Rose said gently.
Ellen’s eyes, so like Kit’s, went from sad to furious in a heartbeat. Brown to green. “All he wants to do,” she said between gritted teeth, “is make money and add it to my dowry. He thinks he can buy me a titled husband. I don’t want a titled husband. I want Thomas.”
Rose had never been afraid to ask questions when she wanted answers. “How much is your dowry?”
“He adds to it constantly. Half of every penny that comes his way. Last I heard, it was up to eleven thousand.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“Gemini,” Rose breathed, stunned. “Mine is only three thousand.” Hardly a pittance—three thousand pounds was ten years’ income for a gentleman. “I have another ten from my grandfather, but that money is mine to control.”
Ellen pushed back her unruly dark hair. “Kit doesn’t let me control anything.”
“He only wants what’s best for you.” Rose was sure of it. She was also sure Kit was going about it in a typical male, pigheaded way, but she wouldn’t say that, at least not now.
“What’s best for me is Thomas. I’ve told Kit that over and over, but he won’t listen. He thinks he knows better than me.”
“Well, you are still fairly young—”
“But I’m not a baby. Why can’t he see that I’ve grown up? I hate being at odds with him. I hate the harsh words. I love him—but I love Thomas, too.” Ellen fought back tears. “Will you help me persuade him?”
“Me?” Rose blinked. “Why should Kit listen to me?”
“He drew you,” Ellen reminded her. “He hasn’t drawn anything but buildings in twelve whole years.”
And he’d kissed her, too, but Rose wouldn’t be telling Ellen that. “I suppose I can try,” she promised her. “But I’m not at all sure I can make any difference.”
Pigheaded. That was Kit. But Rose also thought he was right—at least where Thomas was concerned.
A pawnbroker, for heaven’s sake!
“Do you know, Ellen,” she ventured carefully, “it might be a good idea for you to kiss Thomas before you decide you want to marry him.”
“Kiss him?” Dashing away the tears, Ellen burst out laughing. “Mercy me, that’s precious.”
For a moment Rose was confused, but then she just felt like a fool. Of course Ellen had kissed her love. The girl was sixteen, and Rose had received her first kiss at sixteen.
Which, incidentally, had been the last time she’d ever sought one.
“Show me the book,” she said.
Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I’d like to read the words that go with the pictures,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But it’s a different language.”
“As long as it’s not another architecture book,“ Rose jested, trying to lighten the mood, “because I’ve seen enough buildings.” Her eyes scanned the title. “’I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,’” she read aloud. “It’s Italian.”
“Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”
“It’s authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it’s called The Licentious Sonnets,” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle’s Master-piece, the marriage manual her older sister had brought home years ago. She flipped open the cover—and gasped.
When her hands flew to her mouth the book fell on the floor, but it landed open at the same page. There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.
Nude people. On a bed.
Hearing muffled sounds, she looked up to see Ellen shaking with suppressed laughter. Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of nineteen to Ellen’s sixteen, Rose felt about five years old.
“I’m—sorry—” Ellen choked out, a few giggles spilling out along with her words. “Just—your face—” With a visible effort, she calmed herself, wiping more tears from her eyes. “You were so shocked.”
“And why aren’t you?” Rose snapped, her temper flaring from mortification more than outrage. “What on earth is a respectable young woman doing with a book like this?” Feeling the first twinges of headache coming on, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. And mentally repeated what she’d just said aloud, wondering when she had inexplicably turned into her mother.
“Please don’t be mad. This is the only way I can learn.”
“I beg your pardon?” Rose opened her eyes. “Learn what?”
Ellen chewed her lip. “About…men and woman. What happens when you get married. Kit won’t tell me anything, you see, and I just want to know…”
Rose felt for the girl. She’d grown up sheltered, too, but at least she’d had Mum to explain things. Not that she’d ever actually asked her mother about things—instead she’d got all her knowledge from the manual—but still, she’d always had Mum. Who did Ellen have?
Wait…the manual!
“I’ve got a better book for you,” Rose declared, crouching to retrieve I Sonetti. With an air of finality, she closed the book’s cover. “Believe me, you’ll find it much more informative than sonnets.”
Ellen’s eyes lit with interest. “Ooo, what’s it called? Do you have it here?”
“Well, no. But—”
“When can you get it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to borrow it from my sister’s house, and I’m not sure when I’ll next be there. Or when I’ll be able to bring it back to Windsor…”
“Oh.”
Ellen sounded so deflated that Rose wanted to hug her—and she was not normally one for hugging. “Perhaps…perhaps I could give the sonnets a try. The words might not be as shocking as the pictures.”
Ellen perked right up. “Oh, would you? I’d be ever so grateful!”
Rose cracked the book again, quickly covering the picture with her hand. She took a deep breath and read the first line. “‘Fottiamci anima mia,
