The Watchtower

of females. For him, her presence was so heavy it seemed to have caused all air to be drawn out of the room, leaving him no options for breathing. But he tried not to direct further exasperation at her. The source of his repression was his father, not her.
    Will’s loyalty to Swan Hall swung on one side of an alchemist’s balance right now, while the other weighed a possible new life in London. Avoiding Celia was on the same iron tray as the poet, the poet’s sonnet, and the Globe Theatre. On the opposite tray a grand pile of gold bars lingered powerfully, gleaming.
    “May we enter?” the lord asked sarcastically, as Will continued to stand in the doorway. Will whipped away from him with an obedience so quick it also flirted with sarcasm and went back to his desk. Lord Hughes strode heavily into the center of the room, Celia a few paces behind him. The poet stepped forward to face Lord Hughes; from the rear it looked to Will as if he might have been trembling slightly. He bowed and mumbled, “My lord,” in a voice so tentative Will had to strain to hear it. Lord Hughes nodded impassively, then presented Lady Celia with a small gesture.
    “My lady graces this afternoon and lights up the room as if a second sun has suddenly arisen,” the poet said.
    Will marveled at the man’s ability to let images flow even in the most adversarial of settings. His father addressed his next words to the poet.
    “You must pardon this interruption. An urgent matter has arisen which the three of us must resolve.” A wave of the lord’s right hand seemed to include the window behind the desk as a fourth party to the negotiations. There, a heavy curtain embroidered with a biblical scene of Jesus turning water into wine was drawn against the afternoon sun, obscuring the stained-glass window itself. “I am mindful of our discussion a short time ago and have reached a decision which should enable you to go on with your life.”
    Will was struck by how much his father’s beneficent tone toward the poet contrasted with the tension in his physical bearing. Perhaps his father was directing his internal wrath right now more at his son than his son’s tutor. Perhaps Will should have been a little more cautious in his dismissal of Lady Celia.
    The poet bowed again and said, “Yes, my lord?”
    “You have served well as my son’s tutor and have been an admirable model for him with your brilliance. I am sure he has absorbed a lifelong benefit from knowing you. However your outrageous demand as to ending instruction early, and, even more shocking, your intention to break your marital bonds, have convinced me that these lessons must cease immediately. I have found a better method for persuading Will of his obligations. The Lady Celia will be the perfect bride for him. Let us waste no more time. I will more than generously pay you for all your lessons through today, and you can go on your merry way. As for you,” the lord added, gazing with some ferocity at Will, “your trifling with my wishes is over. You must ask the Lady Celia’s hand in marriage.”
    “When, my lord?”
    “Now.”
    “Now? I have only been in her company a few minutes.”
    “You have known her long enough. Too long, in fact. You should have proposed at the very sight of her. But from what I know of this young woman’s kind and forgiving nature, I suspect she may not hold your slight against you forever. Isn’t that right, my lady?”
    The lady nodded the most demure of nods, but looked unhappy.
    “Well, I’d sooner lie with a rotting horse,” Will said. “And if I knew her fifty years, I wouldn’t ask for her hand in marriage.”
    Then Will took a deep breath. He’d astonished even himself with such provocative language. But he had felt a deep sense of relief uttering these obnoxious words. As if he no longer had to live the lie of obedience to his father.
    Lady Celia stamped her feet furiously and said to Lord Hughes, “Sir, I cannot stay in the presence of such a lout. He speaks filth to me! Your son has a beautiful face but his soul is revolting.”
    She began an exit but found her way impeded by the grip of the lord on her elbow. A dowry of fifty thousand pounds plus a partnership in the prosperous import business that her family owned wasn’t a matter to be flamed away in the heat of the moment. Nor was the lord going to give up so easily regarding his son’s recalcitrance. Admittedly these nuptials weren’t off to a promising start. But