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“Lady sent this,” he said shortly.
Matthew lifted his head from his books. “A lady?” He dropped his pen, where it splattered black ink on the case that he was preparing to argue—Soledad v. Timmings—and took the note. It was addressed to him as Matteo da Picci, and as soon as he saw the name, in the beautiful script, he knew it was from her.
Son,
I would be obliged to you if you would meet me at the coffeehouse at Serle Court. I will wait only half an hour.
Your mother—Nobildonna Livia Avery
Matthew pushed back his chair and snatched up his jacket, thrusting his arms into the sleeves. A glance in the looking glass over his bed showed a handsome young face, half man, half boy. He crammed his pupil’s hat on his long curling hair and crossed the little room in one stride.
“When did you get this?” he threw over his shoulder to the usher who waited on the stair.
“Just five minutes ago, sir,” the man said. “A lady, with her maid behind her.”
Matthew clattered down the winding stone stair, his hand droppingfrom one worn wooden peg to another on the central stone pillar, and ducked his head under the narrow stone doorway.
Matthew’s rooms were in Gatehouse Court, a tall redbrick building trimmed with pale sandstone that had seemed overwhelmingly grand to him when he first took his room as a student to the inn. Now he did not notice the buildings set in the huge well-kept gardens, as he pulled his jacket straight on his shoulders and strode, long-legged, across the paved courtyard, through the deep arch into Serle Court, where the stonemasons were carving blocks for the new buildings in one corner and builders were tying wooden poles of scaffolding together nearby. Even from the courtyard Matthew could smell the roasting coffee beans and the rich smell of yeast from brewing ale. He pulled off his hat as he ducked his head under the doorway and opened the door on his right.
The place was quiet; Mr. Hart, the owner, looked up but did not stir from his stool for a mere puny. Only a couple of clerks were seated at the big central table, spread with pamphlets and newspapers. A lawyer and his client were in one corner discussing their case in low tones.
“Good day, Mr. Hart,” Matthew said politely, looking past him to the interior.
A veiled lady was seated at a table at the back of the room, her maid standing behind her like a guard. Before her stood a tiny cup of strong coffee. Matthew skidded to a halt and watched her put back her veil, lift the cup, take a sip of coffee, and release her veil to hide her face again. He had seen nothing but rouged lips. His heart thudded at the realization that his mother, his beautiful mysterious mother, had finally come for him.
“The lady is here for you?” Mr. Hart rapidly modified his view of Matthew’s unimportance.
“Yes.” He walked across the wooden floor, conscious of the creak of his shoes, and stood before her table, her letter in his hand. He thought he must look like a child, summoned to stand before his schoolmaster.
“My lady, you sent for me?” His voice sounded unsteady in his own ears. He flushed. “I am Matthew,” he said, and now he was too loud, bellowing like a fool.
She swept back her veil and pinned it on her hat with one swift gesture, as if she were ready to reveal herself to him. Matthew stared intoa face that he felt that he knew, that he had somehow always known. She was unforgettable. Thick dark hair was piled off her unlined forehead to tumble in curls to her shoulders, dark eyebrows were arched in interrogation, dark eyes raked him up and down. Her red lips curved into a conspiratorial smile, as if the two of them shared some kind of secret. Dimly, he supposed that they did.
He scanned her face for similarities to his own and found them. Her eyebrows slanted up a little at the ends, as his did. Her eyes were as dark as his, the two of them—mother and son—had the same classically beautiful profile, but his smile was wide and frank, his face was open; hers was veiled even when the lace was put aside.
“Ah, so you are my son,” she said. He heard the lilt of her Italian accent, carefully preserved after fifteen years in England. “I would have known you anywhere.”
He made an awkward bow, and she rose from the table and put her hands lightly on his shoulders and drew him towards her, kissed his forehead like a blessing, and then—like an Italian—kissed him on both cheeks. Her perfume, a light scent of roses, brushed his memory.
She stepped back to inspect him, as if calculating how best she should treat him. She saw the flush in his cheeks and realized that he was still a boy, a youth, sheltered by a loving foster family, kept from the temptations of the City and the dangers of the world. He might be smartly dressed and handsome, he might be studying law; but he was no match for a woman of her sharp acquisitive wits.
“So…” She was reassured. She took her chair and gestured that he should sit opposite her. “So, we meet again. Do you remember me at all?”
“Very slightly,” he stumbled.
“Of course, it was a long time ago. You may sit down, my dear boy, my dearest son.Caro figlio.You speak Italian?”
At his downcast face she laughed. “Of course you do not. How should you learn? But you are educated? I pay the fees, you know? You read Latin at least? And speak French, I suppose?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know you paid…”
“Well, yes! The good women of the warehouse could never afford it and would not have known what school you should attend, or howa gentleman should be raised. I took care of all of that. You have to have guarantors to enter the Inns—they’re called ‘manucaptors’—I provided them too.”
“They never said… I didn’t know.” He flushed, angry at himself for blindly assuming that his foster mothers had provided for him in a world they had never known.
“I doubt they speak of me at all! Do they? And never of what they owe me!” Her musical laugh made Mr. Hart look up, and at her gesture, he came over with a fresh pot of coffee and a cup for Matthew.
“They don’t,” Matthew admitted. “But I thought that was your wish? I thought you told them to raise me and never trouble you?”
