Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [177]
During that winter, Gelis grew accustomed to the tirades of Astorre and le Grant against the Duke and his shortcomings, and sometimes even joined the debate: the arguments, surprisingly enjoyable, relieved their feelings and added another dimension to her education. Since December, her letters to Mistress Clémence in Scotland had begun to include promptings about finding a proper governor for Jodi: one who, in the absence of his father, could also instruct him in arms. Gelis believed, but did not say, that military proficiency would be of advantage to any man working with Clémence. The exception being, of course, Dr Tobias.
Gelis had written to Tobie on certain other matters, and he had replied. She had also spoken, when in Bruges, to Father Moriz on those same other matters. She had even gone out of her way, sojourning in Neuss and in Ghent, to question merchant barons and wealthy mercenaries who, for one reason or another, had been employed in the past by German princes. At times, she felt that this was none of her business. At other times, she would have agreed that there are certain apprehensions no amount of distraction can shift, and that action, even deluded action, may ease them.
She received a letter from Nicholas.
It was the first direct communication between them for over a year, and it had been several months on its way. It reached her in Neuss, plainly sealed, but she knew the handwriting as well as her own. She laid it on her lap and sat for a long time, looking at it, before she pared it open slowly and carefully, as if it might bleed. Inside were two pages, covered on both sides with lines, widely spaced, in the same writing. From beginning to end, it was in code.
So, nothing personal. Not, in that case, a signal that he was pining for company, or about to break the unwritten covenant and return. Not a message to Jodi. A matter of business. A business communication so intriguing, it seemed, that he had not used the company code, but a variant personally known to them both. And he had presumably sent her the message for the simple reason that she could decipher it.
Or so she thought at first. After she had written it all out in clear, and paused in staggered deference to its contents, she understood that Nicholas had other understandable motives: that as before, he was passing information to her because she represented the Bank, and could act on it to the Bank’s benefit. In this instance, there was nothing at present to act on: the company was being informed of an enterprise, and warned to stand by for news, that was all. As she had anticipated, there were no greetings to her or to Jodi; no mention of Anna or Julius, nothing of Caffa or his new life. It might have been addressed to Diniz, Moriz or Govaerts, John or Gregorio, had they been able to decipher the code. Her instructions were to tell John and Moriz, but no one else until she heard further. He thought that might take until April.
April. April, and spring.
After a while, she did what he had once done and, taking a candle, touched the flame to the papers. Upholding the rectangle of light, she looked for the last time at the completed work: at her writing alternating with his: writer speaking to writer. It was not accidental. It was why, unusually, he had spaced out his lines. She imagined him preparing to write, head in hand, and pausing as the trivial idea occurred. She felt she recognised the ultimate obstinacy, the vulnerability even, which had led him to sink his quill in the ink, and proceed with it. And there was something else to be noticed. Belatedly, with an immense burst of surprise, she grasped that Nicholas had sent this letter to her direct: that he had returned