Jake heaved a profound longsuffering sigh. Directly after rehearsals he had approached Finn's other apprentice, Will Crodsky. While Jake learned to act major roles, wore velvet and memorised long speeches, Will carried a spear, wore red shirts, and died - with a certain noticeable caution that his body fall gently and disposedly to the stage. Finn kept Will for errands, and even more for the plays he wrote, which were good and improving as his stagecraft developed. Will was learning all the workings of the Company, all the backstage politics. However, if he propositioned the daughter of the company's patron, it would ruin Will. He must know this. And it would ruin the Company.
And, it would ruin Jacob Pratt. He had never been one for the study of maidens, himself - save insofar as he needed to imitate them - and he couldn't quite believe anyone was truly imprudent enough to set his cap at Lady Bella Calhoun. Why couldn't Will go for an uncomplicated armful like Mistress Lena? Master Finn would flay him for approaching a woman belonging to their employer.
Jake soberly considered the evidence. True, Will called the name "Bella" in his sleep. But he could be dreaming (impure and messy dreams, and as his bedfellow the mess was annoying Jake) of the princesses of his imagination. Over the last month, Will had written three new plays. The heroines had been Princess Belladonna, Rosibella Fair, and Lady Arabella. All of them were fawningly praised in the text as radiant, with golden hair, all newly come to town from the country, all (Jake sighed again) with parti-coloured eyes.
He had to do something about that, before it all got out of control.
The good-looking inn servant was huddled over by the knot garden, trimming the box hedge into a Greek key pattern, Jake assumed, or weeding the gravel walk, or some horticultural thing. At the crunch of footsteps, the boy dropped something, seized a knife, and, by the time Jake had reached him, he was industriously gardening. "Fa -oh."
Jake picked up the slate (poorly concealed, in his opinion) from under the greenery. "You thought I was your father?" Even in his russet doublet, Jake resembled nobody respectable or parental. Truly, he was quite content to have it so, otherwise he would not be cultivating the lovelock that swept across his cheek. Nor, he admitted, would a sober man flirt so much. He admired the Scottish boy's furtive sketch. It was a talented study of a horse - so talented, in fact, that he recognised it as Lord Calhoun's gelding.
"This is good."
The boy managed to stammer out a "thank ye, sir."
Shyness was a terrible burden (or so Jacob had been told) but truly, there was no reason for this horror and confusion. "Boy, I should apologise for earlier. You looked on me with horror; are you so new come from the country? Did the Highland goodwives not warn you about the wicked city?" He put warmth into his teasing, wanting the yokel to calm.
"Not horror... uh-" He lost his tongue again. A blush, though, and a sidelong glance under long dark lashes. His eyes were like jewels.
Jake shifted position to draw attention to what he knew full well was an excellent leg. "Come, what's your name, boy?"
"Hamish. Fleming."
Kin to the innkeeper, then. Jake said, making conversation, "Hamish. That's Scotch for James."
The boy looked surprised that he would know that bit of trivia. Somebody must have told him that Londoners despised provincials and foreigners. It was true; Londoners did. But this was a pretty foreigner; and that made all the difference.
With Glorianna's next heir the Stuart king, Jake thought with cynicism, I misdoubt I'm the only man to show fresh interest in northern affairs. He did not say so. It was treason to speak aloud of the monarch's death, even though aged Elizabeth would never bear a royal heir.
"I was named for our king," Hamish said. Scotland's monarch was a young man and a newlywed, in stark contrast to England's. He added shyly, "And Jacob. Jacob is James, too."
"It is the Latin form." Jake was pleased by his own show of erudition, and better pleased still by the clue that Hamish had been begging his name of someone since their encounter on the stairs. He had made an impression, hah!
Hamish stayed right where he was, hovering over the weeding, flummoxed and awkward. Was the blush permanent? Jake studied his face, and spoke about the opportunities of London town; the quays unloading persimmons from the Indies, the bustle of streetsellers hawking their wares, the glimpses of her Majesty setting off on progress to eat at her courtiers' expense, the hundreds of bowling alleys and the lads gambling there shockingly. Hamish betrayed a lively interest in his new home once he had gotten over his shyness, and questioned Jake about the districts and people. Jake knew it all. He told Ham about the street sermons at Charing Cross, and the bear-baiting in Southwark.
He found himself offering to show these places to Hamish. Telling him about it all, he wanted to see the town afresh, through Ham's eyes.
At length, he looked again at the sketch. "Do you know, there is fine art to be seen in the town, but you need to know the right people. I could help you. A player is a kind of artist, too; I want to help. I have contacts. Connections. I have connections high up. I could help you get access to fine art in the court collections. Holbein paintings, Durer etchings, miniatures by Hilliard. It's kept in vaults, but I can get you in." That came out sounding less platonic than I meant it to. I am not desperate; this is friendship only. Jake sighed. He sounded desperate, to himself.
Hamish gave him an enigmatic look. "Can you."
O, tush, he's all innocent and village-reared. Why would he assume dirty thoughts? Jake reassured himself. Next he would be saying, I really like you, and what I really like you meant, all men knew.
"It is a fact universally acknowledged," Finn said, "that giving heed to a patron's wishes will lead to due rewards." He wanted his prentices to call on Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, in hopes of a commission for work.
Will could not go; he claimed he was playwriting, but when Jake peered over his shoulder, it was a poem he was at. In rhyming couplets, he developed a metaphysical conceit whereby Lady Bella was a new design of clock escapement, and an escapement, Lady Bella. Jake wondered much at how that would conclude. His own warmth for metaphysical conceits linking modern technology to the muse was partially feigned, but they were undeniably fashionable.
The outmost courtyard in the palace of Whitehall was teeming. All the world was here for a bull baiting. Jake edged past clusters of citizens and servingmen. Over by the steps he saw Hamish among them all, talking to earnestly to a young lord, richly dressed in furs and velvets, who Jake could not name. The stranger was a hunchback, stooped over like an old man, but with an unlined face. His looks told a tale of ill health, but as Jake passed close by - he was compelled to take that path by the press of crowds - he saw dark eyes flashing with intensity.
He could catch no words out of their conversation, though he lingered alertly within earshot. However he had to veer off when he saw Caroline going up to the two. Partly because of being put in mind of the Banks household, he recognised her. She was a new maid of Grace Banks.
He felt a pang for her. His gossip Mistress Lena told him it was a hard life working under the capricious Lady Grace and that several in that household had simply disappeared overnight, leaving no word of where they went and never telling their friends how they fared.
The Master of the Revels did not need Finn's troupe at court this sennight, but told Jake over a glass of wine that a wedding was toward at the house of Lord Stretton. It could be worth offering him a masque. The Strettons (new money, thought Jake) were eager to impress, and would be making a valiant show of Master Kyle's nuptials. Jake thanked him sincerely for the information, bowed, and took his leave.
Before he left court, he needed to find out more about the Stretton marriage, so that the entertainment could be tailored to its auditors. Down in the Buttery, he got a dish of eel pie and much good counsel. Kyle Stretton's intended bride was Lady Grace Banks, a lightly soiled dove from amidst Her Majesty's maids of honour.