Chapter 21
Canongate, Scotland
Gayle looked around the room. The process didn’t take long, given that the room was small, perhaps twelve feet by seven feet; and had only five items of furniture in it:
A short bed a little wider—but not much—than what Americans would consider a twin bed;
A table somewhere in size between a nightstand and a writing desk;
A chair for said desk that looked to be sturdily built but was lower than an up-time chair would be;
A candle stand on the table;
And, tucked discreetly under the bed, a chamber pot.
There was no bedding of any kind. Mrs. Crawford, the widow who owned the boarding house, had offered to provide some, but Gayle had politely declined the offer. First, because she was asking too much. Secondly and more importantly, because boardinghouse bedding was notorious for harboring bedbugs. In the course of their travels since escaping from the Tower, Gayle had acquired her own bedding which was rolled up in one of the bags Oliver and she had hauled up to the room. It wasn’t much and couldn’t be much, given their constant moving about over the past months. But now that they’d arrived somewhere they were planning to stay for a while, she’d find something more substantial. Fortunately, summer in Edinburgh—Canongate, technically—was fairly warm despite the high latitude.
The room had one window on the wall opposite the bed, that was bigger than most such windows but still very small. It consisted of six panes of glass, none of which were either clear or undistorted. Still, it let some light in the room, although Gayle had her doubts how much light would be coming in once the sun passed over the roof of the house and they got into the afternoon. But at least their mornings wouldn’t be too somber.
Speaking of somber…
She turned to face the other occupant in the room. Oliver Cromwell was looking here, there and anywhere except in her direction. He had that passive, stoical expression on his face that was Oliver’s way of dealing with the world when he wasn’t sure of himself. It was all she could do not to burst into laughter.
But that wouldn’t be fair to the man. Oliver could be awkward at times, but she never doubted that his intentions were good. Honorable, as they were wont to say in the here and now.
“We’re past that, Oliver,” she said quietly. Then, pointing at the bed: “Why don’t you sit down?”
He gave the chair a quick glance.
“Here,” Gayle said, still pointing at the bed.
Cromwell hesitated a moment and then, rather gingerly, sat on the bed. Perched on the bed, it might be better to say. He didn’t have more than a few inches of it under him and looked as if he was ready to spring back onto his feet at a moment’s notice.
Again, she restrained a laugh. Then, after a moment’s thought, let a soft, chuckling version of it come out.
“Will you relax, Oliver? We both agreed we had to pose as a married couple when we went looking for lodgings.”
Having a single man and—especially—a single woman who traveled together but rented separate rooms would be sure to get tongues wagging. Not to mention that their finances were tight because of Cromwell’s stubborn refusal to accept any money that might have derived from the coffers of the USE. Especially since she’d have to fudge the truth a bit. She had no qualms about accepting the USE’s money, seeing as how she was a citizen of said foreign nation.
Granted, she handled that matter delicately, knowing how Oliver felt about it. While no tainted foreign silver might cross her palms, she let Darryl pay for all sorts of things that she and Oliver took advantage of. One of the things Harry Lefferts had brought to the Tower had been a fair amount of money which he gave those people who were planning to stay in Britain.
But—not directly. Which meant whatever lodgings she and Oliver found for themselves had to be paid for out of their none-too-full purse, which only escaped being completely empty because Gayle had borrowed money from Julie and Alex. To be repaid…
Whenever.
She sat down on the bed next to him. Closely next to him, their thighs touching. She half-expected Oliver to sidle away from her, but, to his credit, he didn’t. The expression on his face got even more stoical, though.
Then, more stoical still, when she slid her arm around his waist.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he said stiffly.
“Yes, you can. No, you won’t. Oliver, look at me.”
He turned his head toward her.
“I am willing to accommodate you in many ways,” she said. “For starters, if you wish me to I will convert from my own church to yours.” She shrugged. “I’m a Christian, and a Protestant, but I don’t care that much about the ins-and-outs of doctrine.”
“There’s no need for that, Gayle. I am what we English call independent, which means we favor local congregational control of church affairs—much as your own church does, as I understand it. I don’t much care for sectarian issues either.”
He slid his own arm around her waist. “I do thank you for the offer, though.” Then, smiling: “Yet I sense there was a ‘but’ coming at the end of that offer.”
She smiled back. “Yes, there was—is. You will have to be willing to accommodate me in some matters.” With her free hand, she patted the bed. “This is one of them. I am thirty-six years old—a year older than you are. I’ve been married and divorced.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know already, but felt the need to dot all necessary i’s and cross all relevant t’s. “To put it as bluntly as I can, my virginity is long gone and I can’t say I miss it at all. I have fallen in love with you and I wish to pursue that as far as I can. But I’m a practical sort of girl and for today that means I want to make love. Tomorrow can take care of itself for the time being. If you want to get married, the answer is ‘yes.’ If you don’t, for the time being, the answer is still ‘yes.’ I’m tired of dancing around.”
He looked at her for a few seconds, his expression very serious, almost solemn. Then, he smiled, and the smile kept spreading. “I am quite willing to accommodate you in this matter, as I’m sure I will in many others.”
The rest of the day passed with much in the way of accommodation. Gayle had been told by Melissa Mailey that the reputation Puritans had in American history of being sour, fun-hating prudes who were especially uptight about sex was all nonsense. Gayle had believed her, since one doubted Melissa Mailey’s pronouncements on historical matters at one’s own risk.
Still, it was nice to discover that the information she’d been given was accurate. Very accurate, in fact.
The only awkward moment came after they’d already made love twice. Rather diffidently, Oliver raised the issue of child-bearing. He began by making clear that he would of course assume all his fatherly responsibilities—indeed, he looked ready to enumerate those at great length—but did express concern over how the arrival of a new infant might create difficulties given his political intentions.
Gayle cut him off in mid-assurance. “Relax, will you? I have an IUD, which by good fortune I had implanted just two years before the Ring of Fire. And it’s one of the copper types which means it’ll last for several more years. By which time we’ll either be successful or dead or in prison or back on the Continent, any one of which eventualities will make having kids either a moot point or no big deal.”
Silence followed, for a moment. Then Gayle explained the nature of an IUD, concluding with: “Mind you, there were some pro-life people who thought the IUD was no better than abortion. I thought they were idiots. This is one of those areas where you’ll have to accommodate me.”
Oliver pursed his lips, and looked at the ceiling. “I have no opinion on the matter one way or the other. So I will gladly defer to your wisdom.”
“Such a smart man.”
Vicky Short came by in mid-afternoon, which required a hasty termination of those activities which Gayle and Oliver would henceforth and forever more refer to as “mutual accommodation.”
They did their best to straighten up the room and look as if they’d spent the previous hours discussing theology. Vicky was not fooled one bit. Her own virginity was also gone, albeit not long gone, and she didn’t miss it any more than Gayle did.
But she said nothing. Until she got back to the room on the top floor she was sharing with Darryl.
Her command of American idiom was by now pretty much complete. “Gayle and Oliver just spent the day finally getting laid,” she announced cheerily.
Darryl stared at her. “Are you sure?” he blurted out—and then immediately regretted it. The look Vicky was giving him was not one of admiration.
“Yeah, sure, of course you’re sure. Stupid of me to ask.”
He got up from their bed, where he’d been not quite taking a nap but doing a good imitation of it. Then, once on his feet, went over to the window in their own room.
It was also small, albeit not as small. It had eight panes instead of six, and two of them—would wonders never cease?—were pretty close to transparent and provided an almost undistorted view of the boarding house’s tiny back yard.
Darryl tried to figure out how he felt about the new development.
“Does everything make you fret over the fate of Ireland?” Vicky demanded, mostly amused but a bit irritated. “Can’t you just feel good for them?”
He did feel good for them, he realized. Then he tried to figure out how he felt about the fact that he felt good.
“You’re hopeless,” Vicky pronounced. “And ridiculous.”
“Hey, look, I’m Irish,” he said. By way of hopeless and ridiculous explanation.