with an indulgent laugh. “Why, nothing, my little man.”
“Then,” said Rory icily, “it is high time you did.”
Freddie stared at the boy in amazement. Only a bare minute ago, an angelic child had been facing him. Now he was confronted by a cunning dwarf with hard, calculating eyes. “Why should I bring you anything?” he demanded. “It ain’t Christmas. It ain’t your birthday.”
“You are stupid,” said Rory flatly. “My mother will not go with you if I take you in dislike.”
“Why… why…” spluttered Freddie, “I have a good mind to put you over my knee.”
Rory opened his cherubic mouth and then closed it quickly. Morag came into the room, and for the moment Freddie forgot everything else. She was wearing a tunic dress of white muslin edged with a gold border of Greek key design over a heavy white silk slip. Her red curls were dressed
à la victime
, and, as she moved toward him, he caught a breath of faint yet elusive perfume. She was a goddess, she was magnificent, she…
He was brought back from the groves of Arcadia with a bang.
“Mama,” said Rory. “My head feels so hot and heavy.”
Morag, who had stretched out her hand in greeting to the enraptured Lord Freddie, dropped it and rushed to Rory’s side. “But you were very well not so long ago, my darling,” she cried, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around him. Rory stared steadily over her shoulder at Lord Freddie. “I don’t know,” he whined. “I suddenly feel so ill and weak. You must not leave me, mama.”
“I should not dream of it, my precious lamb,” cried Morag. “Lord Rotherwood will forgive me. Does your chest hurt?”
Lord Freddie took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up and down. Rory looked at it with infinite contempt and said on a choked sob, “I-I ache so, mama. All over.”
Lord Freddie sighed and took a guinea from his pocket and held it up. Morag still had her back to him and her arms round Rory. Rory rested his pointed chin on her white shoulder and gave Lord Freddie a brief nod.
“I ache
nowhere
, mama!” he cried with an enchanting, rippling laugh. “I was only funning and you believed me!”
Morag released him and gave him a mock slap on the bottom. “Is he not a scamp?” she cried, turning a glowing face to Lord Freddie. “You must not tease me so, Rory.”
“I am sorry,” said Rory with true contrition, for he hated to upset her in any way and it was all the fault of that fool Rotherwood being so slow on the uptake. Miss Simpson came in bearing the glass of water. “Why are you always bringing me glasses of water, Miss Simpson?” cried Rory merrily. “I declare, mama, she thinks I am a
whale!
”
Miss Simpson put the glass down on a side table and compressed her lips. She had long ago learned it was foolish to point out to Morag that her son was a malicious liar. Rory had all the weapons, all the answers. For a brief moment, the eyes of the old governess and the young lord met in complete understanding.
Then, “Go, mama, or you will be late,” urged Rory. “May I shake your hand, Lord Rotherwood?”
“By all means,” said Lord Freddie gloomily as Rory palmed the guinea from his hand. “By all means.”
Morag sat in the carriage in a fever of anticipation. This was to be the most
elegant
evening of her life. No crudity or vulgarity surely marred the hallowed halls of Almack’s. She saw the whole thing in her mind’s eye as some kind of celestial minuet.
No one had warned her of the circus
outside
Almack’s.
There was an enormous press of carriages, fighting and jostling for space, urged on by their screaming passengers, frantic to a woman in case they did not gain entry to this social heaven.
Foolhardy coachmen would espy a small gap in the press and would drive both carriages and horses full tilt into the gap. The air was loud with the swearing of coachmen and grooms, shrieks from the ladies, and splintering wood. A cabriolet drove its
“Then,” said Rory icily, “it is high time you did.”
Freddie stared at the boy in amazement. Only a bare minute ago, an angelic child had been facing him. Now he was confronted by a cunning dwarf with hard, calculating eyes. “Why should I bring you anything?” he demanded. “It ain’t Christmas. It ain’t your birthday.”
“You are stupid,” said Rory flatly. “My mother will not go with you if I take you in dislike.”
“Why… why…” spluttered Freddie, “I have a good mind to put you over my knee.”
Rory opened his cherubic mouth and then closed it quickly. Morag came into the room, and for the moment Freddie forgot everything else. She was wearing a tunic dress of white muslin edged with a gold border of Greek key design over a heavy white silk slip. Her red curls were dressed
à la victime
, and, as she moved toward him, he caught a breath of faint yet elusive perfume. She was a goddess, she was magnificent, she…
He was brought back from the groves of Arcadia with a bang.
“Mama,” said Rory. “My head feels so hot and heavy.”
Morag, who had stretched out her hand in greeting to the enraptured Lord Freddie, dropped it and rushed to Rory’s side. “But you were very well not so long ago, my darling,” she cried, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around him. Rory stared steadily over her shoulder at Lord Freddie. “I don’t know,” he whined. “I suddenly feel so ill and weak. You must not leave me, mama.”
“I should not dream of it, my precious lamb,” cried Morag. “Lord Rotherwood will forgive me. Does your chest hurt?”
Lord Freddie took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up and down. Rory looked at it with infinite contempt and said on a choked sob, “I-I ache so, mama. All over.”
Lord Freddie sighed and took a guinea from his pocket and held it up. Morag still had her back to him and her arms round Rory. Rory rested his pointed chin on her white shoulder and gave Lord Freddie a brief nod.
“I ache
nowhere
, mama!” he cried with an enchanting, rippling laugh. “I was only funning and you believed me!”
Morag released him and gave him a mock slap on the bottom. “Is he not a scamp?” she cried, turning a glowing face to Lord Freddie. “You must not tease me so, Rory.”
“I am sorry,” said Rory with true contrition, for he hated to upset her in any way and it was all the fault of that fool Rotherwood being so slow on the uptake. Miss Simpson came in bearing the glass of water. “Why are you always bringing me glasses of water, Miss Simpson?” cried Rory merrily. “I declare, mama, she thinks I am a
whale!
”
Miss Simpson put the glass down on a side table and compressed her lips. She had long ago learned it was foolish to point out to Morag that her son was a malicious liar. Rory had all the weapons, all the answers. For a brief moment, the eyes of the old governess and the young lord met in complete understanding.
Then, “Go, mama, or you will be late,” urged Rory. “May I shake your hand, Lord Rotherwood?”
“By all means,” said Lord Freddie gloomily as Rory palmed the guinea from his hand. “By all means.”
Morag sat in the carriage in a fever of anticipation. This was to be the most
elegant
evening of her life. No crudity or vulgarity surely marred the hallowed halls of Almack’s. She saw the whole thing in her mind’s eye as some kind of celestial minuet.
No one had warned her of the circus
outside
Almack’s.
There was an enormous press of carriages, fighting and jostling for space, urged on by their screaming passengers, frantic to a woman in case they did not gain entry to this social heaven.
Foolhardy coachmen would espy a small gap in the press and would drive both carriages and horses full tilt into the gap. The air was loud with the swearing of coachmen and grooms, shrieks from the ladies, and splintering wood. A cabriolet drove its
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