Ned looked cross and said nothing.
‘It must have been about three years ago, just before you came to Paris.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because Roger is two.’
‘Oh. You noticed.’
‘He has your eyes.’ She looked into Ned’s eyes. ‘That wonderful golden-brown.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘I knew, when I married you, that I was not the first woman you’d loved. But . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘But I didn’t know you might still love her, or that she had had your child.’
Ned took both her hands in his. ‘I can’t tell you that I’m indifferent to her, or don’t care about her,’ he said. ‘But please understand that you are all I want.’
It was the right thing to say, but Sylvie was not sure she believed him. All she knew was that she loved him and she was not going to let anyone take him away. ‘Make love to me,’ she said.
He kissed her. ‘My goodness, you’re a hard taskmaster,’ he joked. Then he kissed her again.
But this was not enough. She wanted something with him that Susannah Twyford and Margery Shiring had never shared. ‘Wait,’ she said, thinking. ‘Is there something you’ve always thought about doing with a woman?’ She had never before talked like this to him – or to anyone. ‘Something that excites you when you imagine it, but you’ve never done it?’ She held her breath. What would he say?
He looked thoughtful and a little embarrassed.
‘There is,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I can tell.’ She was glad she could read his face so easily. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m embarrassed to say.’
Now he looked bashful. It was sweet. She wriggled closer to him, pressing her body against his. In a low voice she said: ‘Then whisper.’
He whispered in her ear.
She looked at him, grinning, a little surprised but also aroused. ‘Really?’
He shook his head. ‘No, forget it. I shouldn’t have said it.’
She felt excited, and she could tell he was, too. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But we could try it.’
So they did.
Part Four
1583 to 1589
22
Ned studied the face of his son, Roger. His heart was so full he could hardly speak. Roger was a child on the edge of adolescence, starting to grow taller but still having smooth cheeks and a treble voice. He had Margery’s curly dark hair and impish look, but Ned’s golden-brown eyes.
They were in the parlour of the house opposite the cathedral. Earl Bart had come to Kingsbridge for the spring court of quarter sessions, and had brought with him the two boys he thought were his sons: Bartlet, who was eighteen, and Roger, twelve. Ned, too, had come for the court: he was the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge now.
Ned had no other children. He and Sylvie had been making love for more than ten years, with a fervour that had hardly diminished, but she had never become pregnant. It was a cause of sadness to them both, and it made Roger painfully precious to Ned.
Ned was also recalling his own adolescence. I know what you have in front of you, he thought as he looked at Roger; and I wish I could tell you all about it, and make it easier for you; but when I was your age I never believed older people who said they knew what the lives of younger ones were like, and I don’t suppose you will either.
