The Watchtower

did not go well.”
    “My father! He’s not due back until after sundown. He’s here?” Will would never have risked his dalliance with Bess had he known his father to be at the estate. The gruff, old autocrat’s obsession with the marriage issue—and his capacity for disinheriting Will—made being caught with Bess too outrageous a chance to take. Suspicions among the servants about his activities were tolerable. But not a chance encounter with the lord while Will was with so inappropriate a lady.
    “He’s gone off again but will be back soon. He’d come back early on some pretext from business in London. It sounded like the real reason for his sudden return was you.”
    “Me!”
    Edgar, his father’s footservant, emerged from the passageway that opened onto the great hall near the front door and began to officiously polish the handle of a sword hanging on the wall to his left. Will and the poet were lingering longer than usual in the hallway before entering the study, and even their subdued voices could probably be heard elsewhere in the cavernous, drafty house. This moment wasn’t propitious to do anything unusual. Will rose in silence, letting go of the poet’s hands, and walked toward the study, the poet following him. Edgar allowed himself a glance behind him before returning to his polishing. It was just as well that Edgar hadn’t seemed to catch a glimpse of their hand clasp.
    Entering the study, Will sat in a chair at an oak desk where his favorite onyx writing pen gleamed on its marble stand, and the poet sat in a plain maple chair facing him, from where he had a clear view of Will’s features though his own were in shadow. “Lord Hughes said that you and I should remain here until he returns, even if it is several hours. The good lord has a special person he wants you to meet.”
    Will groaned.
    “He also said to convey his caution to you that you are to be punctual for all future meetings between us. If there are any.”
    “But why are you so agitated? I’m the one he’s bringing someone to meet! Or, some thing, more likely.”
    “Because I came here today, in addition to the usual instruction, to tell you remarkable news. Unfortunately I blurted it out to him. He took to my news like a sledgehammer to glass. So I’m sitting here now plucking the glass slivers out of my soul.”
    Will winced. He’d never known the poet to use such dramatic language in conversation before. And he was baffled as to the facts. “What is shattered?”
    “My life circumstances, since your father will not pay me what I am owed for tutoring you.”
    “But why would you ask for payment now? Our studies continue through the end of the year.” It was May.
    The poet stood up for emphasis. He extended his hands in front of him, palms up, in a gesture of beseechment.
    “Anne and I have not had the happiest of unions, Will. You must have gleaned this a hundred times, a thousand, from things I have said. Indeed the heart of my message to you has been for you to select your own mate and not let circumstances do it as I unfortunately have, though I understand your father’s oversight is a burden I did not have to cope with. But I have made my mistake and paid my price in suffering, though I cannot swear that all my moments with Anne have been miserable—we’ve had some happiness, too …
    “But now, in the past year in London, I have met the woman of my dreams, my soul mate, the infinitely lovely and tender Lady Marguerite D’Arques, whom both my blood and my mind summon me to be with. And if I do not go to be with her now, she will be returning to France in a fortnight, because of a family crisis. Her sister—an evil woman—is plotting to take over the family estate in Brittany. I have beseeched Marguerite to put aside all thought of her ancestral riches and throw in her lot with me. But I must at least be able to provide her with a roof over her head. I cannot go to her penniless!” At this thought the poet gasped, and his palms closed to fists. He trained his gaze more directly on Will, though his eyes were filling with tears.
    Will was speechless. The crisis sounded dire, but some good news was in what the poet was saying, for the poet. But no good news for Will. After a pause he offered modest congratulations and best hopes for the crisis. Then he added, anger welling at the apparent end of his own relationship with the poet, which had meant so much to him, “What of all your speeches to me of