Devil Water by Anya Seton

lechery. Mr. Petre will concern himself with your spiritual direction, but I’ve been thinking of a material remedy too. An early marriage, my dear Charles, will help you.”
    “Marriage!” Charles repeated in so horrified a voice that James touched him affectionately on the hand.
    “Not at once, of course, and you’ll get used to the idea. Besides I know you like the lady, and she seems very fond of you.”
    “Who?” whispered Charles, recoiling.
    “Why, our cousin, Betty Lee. Lady Lichfield had already approached me on the subject, and though at first I was dismayed because Betty is Protestant, I began to see the advantages for you. And we can pray that, as so often happens to a wife, Betty will convert.”
    “But, good lord!” cried Charles. “The Lichfields wanted you! And I -- why I’ve never thought of Betty that way. Nor she me!”
    “I take leave to doubt the latter,” said James smiling, “if what her mother says is true. As for your feelings, Charles, I wonder if you know them? No one will force you, naturally. I just want you to think about it.”
    James ignored Charles’s outburst that the Lichfields had first thought of himself for Betty, because he did not wish to explain that his ideal wife would be someone quite different. She would be quiet and, convent-bred, well schooled to the responsibilities incumbent on the head of a great Catholic family. The rattling, heedless Betty did not answer James’s needs though he thought she might suit Charles very well. Nor was Charles apt to have so good a chance again. Younger brothers seldom did. In fact, not having had the benefit of Lady Lichfield’s private musings on the night when Dr. Radcliffe announced the coming audience with the Queen, and being himself without guile, James had been astonished at the offer. He had put it down to parental fondness, swayed by the girl’s feelings, and he was quite sure that Charles would in time find the marriage desirable.
    James was right, and Charles’s capitulation came much sooner than he had expected.
    Dr. Radcliffe spared no pains to insure his guests’ pleasure on Twelfth Night. His spacious rooms had all been decorated with fresh garlands of holly and ivy. Nearly a thousand wax candles sparkled on the crystal of sconces and candelabra; the main fires were stoked with sweet-smelling applewood. He had also hired musicians, and placed them in the drawing room alcove. When Charles walked in trying to look unconcerned, flute, fiddles, and guitar were playing a lively rendition of “The Gloucestershire Carol.”
    Charles saw with acute relief that it was still only a family party; outside guests had not yet arrived. Dr. Radcliffe sat in his great walnut chair by the fire, beaming like a Father Christmas and waving a silver cup full of brandy punch while he sang with the music, “Wassail, Wassail all over the town, Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown . . .” though nothing so unsophisticated as bread and ale would be served tonight. “Ha, Charles!” he cried. “Go talk to your little sister, before a more interesting young lady arrives!” He gave a prodigious wink, by which Charles understood that the Doctor must have heard something of negotiations with the Lichfields, though nobody but James and Father Petre knew of the entanglement with the Duchess, whom Dr. Radcliffe continued to dote on.
    Charles bowed unsmiling and joined James, who was sitting on the sofa with their sister, Lady Mary, and her friend Anna Maria Webb on either side of him. Both little girls had been released from the convent for the occasion. Charles had seen his sister but once, and didn’t know what to say to her, though she greeted him prettily and held out a wax doll for his inspection. “Thee my baby, Brother Charleth,” she said with a lisp, which made her seem younger than her twelve years. “I embroidered her gown mythelf, the nuns taught me.” Charles murmured something and patted the doll, while James said,