“They’ve taught you well, Molly.” He turned to the other girl. “I’m sure you embroider too, Miss Webb?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Anna. “I’m working on an altar cloth. Sister Hilda says I am too old for toys.” She sighed, her large dark eyes looked wistful. She was a tiny little thing who gave promise of beauty someday, though she did not look even as old as Mary, so James asked smiling, “You cannot be so very aged, I think?”
“Fourteen, my lord,” she answered solemnly. “Mama agrees with the sisters that I must now spend my time in serious study for a year. I dislike arithmetic,” she added shaking her sleek dark head.
“Do you indeed?” James laughed. “And what do you like? Music, for instance?” He nodded towards the alcove, where the fiddlers were playing a gay number from Purcell’s Fairy Queen.
“Oh yes, my lord!” Her little pink mouth widened in a smile. “I can play the virginals, and sing parts.”
“Ah,” said James courteously. “You have tastes like mine.” His own words startled him, and he thought quickly of what he knew about the girl. She was the eldest daughter of a baronet, Sir John Webb, who was a wealthy Catholic land owner in Dorset. James, upon his arrival in London, had investigated the background of Mary’s great friend and found her a suitable companion for his sister. The Mother Superior spoke highly of Anna’s breeding and intelligence. It would be interesting to see what she was like in a couple of years. James put the thought aside and, turning to Mary, included both girls in his questions about their convent life, thus releasing Charles, who was far too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his little sister.
He glanced at Francis, who was standing in a corner speaking French with Father Petre. Francis looked sulky, because there would be no gaming here tonight, and the priest was endeavoring to divert him with an anecdote he had heard about a duel recently fought at St. Germain. The priest was the only person in the world who had any real influence on Francis, and that influence had waned of late.
Charles walked restlessly past the two and settled near his uncle, Colonel Thomas Radcliffe. The elderly man, dressed in his scarlet regimentals, had been brought downstairs tonight and sat in a corner behind the fire screen, where Dr. Radcliffe could keep an eye on him. The bouts of madness had lessened owing to the laudanum and henbane the Doctor had been giving him, but the Colonel’s behavior was unpredictable. He greeted Charles with trembling eagerness and said, “Nephew, nephew, ye won’t let ‘em put me in Bedlam, will ye? That’s what he wants to do. I heard him whispering.”
“Oh no, Uncle,” said Charles kindly. “Neither the Doctor nor James would dream of such a thing.”
“Not them! I don’t mean them!” The thin blue-veined hands waved in agitation, he leaned towards Charles whispering. “ ‘Tis old Scrat, ye know who I mean, he’s hiding now behind yon door, I can see his cloven hoof, can’t you?”
Charles shook his head. “The dev -- that is, Old Scrat -- wouldn’t dare come here on Twelfth Night. Why ‘tis Epiphany and we’ve all been to Mass!”
This seemed to satisfy the Colonel, who crossed himself, said “Ave Maria!” and, resting his head on his hand, went to sleep. At that moment Lady Lichfield and Betty were announced. They had brought a gentleman with them, a cousin of Lord Lichfield’s called Francis Lee. He seemed an agreeable, stout, ruddy-faced man, but he made no impression on Charles, who was busy bowing and trying to avoid Betty’s eye. It took Charles a while to realize that Betty was equally anxious to avoid his. In fact she was barely civil, and kept her back turned to him as she carried on an interrupted conversation with her cousin, whom she called “Dear Frank” in a determined, breathless voice. Betty wore a new green gown which became her. The auburn hair, freshly coiffed, was piled
“Yes, my lord,” said Anna. “I’m working on an altar cloth. Sister Hilda says I am too old for toys.” She sighed, her large dark eyes looked wistful. She was a tiny little thing who gave promise of beauty someday, though she did not look even as old as Mary, so James asked smiling, “You cannot be so very aged, I think?”
“Fourteen, my lord,” she answered solemnly. “Mama agrees with the sisters that I must now spend my time in serious study for a year. I dislike arithmetic,” she added shaking her sleek dark head.
“Do you indeed?” James laughed. “And what do you like? Music, for instance?” He nodded towards the alcove, where the fiddlers were playing a gay number from Purcell’s Fairy Queen.
“Oh yes, my lord!” Her little pink mouth widened in a smile. “I can play the virginals, and sing parts.”
“Ah,” said James courteously. “You have tastes like mine.” His own words startled him, and he thought quickly of what he knew about the girl. She was the eldest daughter of a baronet, Sir John Webb, who was a wealthy Catholic land owner in Dorset. James, upon his arrival in London, had investigated the background of Mary’s great friend and found her a suitable companion for his sister. The Mother Superior spoke highly of Anna’s breeding and intelligence. It would be interesting to see what she was like in a couple of years. James put the thought aside and, turning to Mary, included both girls in his questions about their convent life, thus releasing Charles, who was far too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his little sister.
He glanced at Francis, who was standing in a corner speaking French with Father Petre. Francis looked sulky, because there would be no gaming here tonight, and the priest was endeavoring to divert him with an anecdote he had heard about a duel recently fought at St. Germain. The priest was the only person in the world who had any real influence on Francis, and that influence had waned of late.
Charles walked restlessly past the two and settled near his uncle, Colonel Thomas Radcliffe. The elderly man, dressed in his scarlet regimentals, had been brought downstairs tonight and sat in a corner behind the fire screen, where Dr. Radcliffe could keep an eye on him. The bouts of madness had lessened owing to the laudanum and henbane the Doctor had been giving him, but the Colonel’s behavior was unpredictable. He greeted Charles with trembling eagerness and said, “Nephew, nephew, ye won’t let ‘em put me in Bedlam, will ye? That’s what he wants to do. I heard him whispering.”
“Oh no, Uncle,” said Charles kindly. “Neither the Doctor nor James would dream of such a thing.”
“Not them! I don’t mean them!” The thin blue-veined hands waved in agitation, he leaned towards Charles whispering. “ ‘Tis old Scrat, ye know who I mean, he’s hiding now behind yon door, I can see his cloven hoof, can’t you?”
Charles shook his head. “The dev -- that is, Old Scrat -- wouldn’t dare come here on Twelfth Night. Why ‘tis Epiphany and we’ve all been to Mass!”
This seemed to satisfy the Colonel, who crossed himself, said “Ave Maria!” and, resting his head on his hand, went to sleep. At that moment Lady Lichfield and Betty were announced. They had brought a gentleman with them, a cousin of Lord Lichfield’s called Francis Lee. He seemed an agreeable, stout, ruddy-faced man, but he made no impression on Charles, who was busy bowing and trying to avoid Betty’s eye. It took Charles a while to realize that Betty was equally anxious to avoid his. In fact she was barely civil, and kept her back turned to him as she carried on an interrupted conversation with her cousin, whom she called “Dear Frank” in a determined, breathless voice. Betty wore a new green gown which became her. The auburn hair, freshly coiffed, was piled
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