The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 3- Part 1

Inside the solar, the Earl was still announcing his plans, something about visiting Italy in the spring. He was talking about being competitive, and needing to carry more goods at a cheaper price. Money, he said, could be made that way. She didn't hear Philip's question but heard Eton answer, "Yes, in theory, but in practice there are also innumerable opportunities for disaster. Storms. Disease. Fire. War. Robbery." She imagined the Earl to be at his table littered with maps and record books, his writing quill lying on its side, dribbling ink across one ledger.

"When you go away next time-" Philip began, clearly a question in his voice.

"Yes?" the Earl was waiting.

"I was wondering-" and again Philip's voice failed him.

"Yes?"

"It's just that I thought-or hoped that-"

"What?" Eton slapped the table with his palm. "What do you want?"

"Books." Philip could scarcely bring himself to speak. "More books."

"God in Heaven! You do try my patience."

"I am sorry, Father."

"I am sorry, Father!" Eton mimicked, his voice high and quavering. "Philip, I thought you might share my interest in the business, have some curiosity about maritime trade. Now ships-" he said, sounding as if he were tapping something on the table, "-they change everything. Sea trade is more fascinating than anything I've ever dabbled in before. Everything is still new, open to exploration, ready for growth. We can be a part of it, Phil, we can take a piece of it, make it ours. What do you think? Eh?"

"I am glad for you, Father. Very glad."

"Is that all?" the Earl boomed. "Don't you find it exciting?"

"Yes, Father. Very exciting."

"Crock of shit!"

"Father?"

"It is a crock of shit, Philip. And you know it. You don't mean a thing you say."

Cordaella heard a thud followed by a high splinter of glass. It sounded as if the Earl had swept everything off his table. "Leave them!" Eton shouted. "You don't care what happens to the business, so don't pretend to care about the books. Go on-" he shouted even more angrily than before, "-get out."

Cordaella turned and ran up the stairs before the door opened. She didn't know where to go; she didn't want Philip to know she had heard everything. She peeped into the nursery and saw that it was empty. Mrs. Penny must have gone down the backstairs to the kitchen or to the privy in the tower. Cordaella shut the door and hid on the other side of her bed.

Moments later, the nursery door was flung open and Philip threw himself on his bed. She could see his thin wrists where the sleeves of his coat fell back. Although three years older than she, he wasn't much bigger, and she felt sorry for him, sorry for the smallness of his hands and the narrowness of his shoulders. She listened as he cried, wondering if she should go to him. "Philip?" she whispered after several minutes passed.

He didn't speak, his shoulders still heaving.

"Can I come sit with you?" she asked.

He sat up quickly, trying to wipe the traces of tears from his face. "How long have you been here?"

"Just a moment, and hardly that," she said, not wanting to hurt him. He had such tender feelings. She crawled over her bed to his and gingerly sat down next to him. "What is the matter? What has happened?"

"My father," he said, rubbing his eyes. "He can be so hateful."

"He doesn't understand you, does he? All he wants to talk about are his ships." She looked at his profile, the slender nose and boyish mouth. She wondered if he looked like his mother, because he didn't take after the Earl, and he was more slender, fairer, than his brother or sister.