Traitor to the Crown by C.C. Finlay

Author:C.C. Finlay [Finlay, C. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-51573-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

It was all too easy to suit Proctor. Digges, who seemed to trust no one, trusted Gordon. And Gordon not only claimed to know of the Covenant but had been working for at least two years against their plan to take control of England.

They spent several days at the inn, in which Proctor learned no more than this. Digges settled their account. Gordon gave a stirring speech to the whole of the village assembled before the inn, in which he spoke in grand but vague terms about their great cause, the dire threat from popery, and the need to halt Catholic emancipation for the sake of England—“even if we must wade through blood to do it.”

The last part worried Lydia. “Blood and fire, that’s what Magdalena promised me,” she said.

“I took it for more of a warning than a promise,” Proctor said. And then, lowering his voice, he added, “I didn’t know that slaves were—well, not slaves—in England. I’m so used to hearing about English tyranny, and the Crown making slaves of us all, that …” He trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, don’t you apologize for that,” Lydia said. “A woman’s only free if she can pay her way. Believe me, when you were sick, I pleaded the ignorance of servitude and sang about your riches, and it bought us time for you to heal.”

“What if I hadn’t recovered?” he asked.

She looked away from him and waved off the question. “Never considered that a possibility.”

He let it go because he had quickly grown obsessed with Gordon. They hired horses—again from Franklin’s purse—and rode to London, where they stayed at Gordon’s house on Welbeck Street. It was as fine a home as Proctor had ever been in: three stories of fine brick, finely proportioned, anchored by four chimneys, one at each corner of the house, and lit by a row of five large windows across each level. There was a door framed by windows on the first floor, and a balcony at the window on the second. But inside, the house seemed hollow—room after room filled with any odd end of furnishings as though the owner were indifferent to the effort. The library, which sat at the front of the house for light—other houses butted up against either side, making those rooms darker—was filled with an assortment of volumes as odd as the furniture. Beautifully made books that had never been opened jumbled haphazardly with old volumes falling apart at the binding, and all of them covered with dust. It left Proctor with the impression that Gordon’s life was lived outside his home, and that the secret to his thoughts remained in his head and not in his papers.

From the window of his bedroom, Proctor watched the chimney sweeps walk the streets, their long brushes sooting the dawn light. Digges might be blinded, but Proctor could see the truth: Gordon was hiding not only the extent of his talent for rousing strong passion, but his plans for using it; and though Gordon claimed to be fighting the Covenant, it was just as possible that he served them.

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