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Authors: Anya Seton
Tags: Historical fiction
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reign peacefully. ‘Tis the wisest course and in God’s hands. We’ll say Masses of Intention for it. Charles, I trust you pray for our most wronged and Catholic majesty daily?”
Charles looked blank. “I -- I haven’t, my lord.”
“Ah well,” said James with his quick, warm smile. “You will. And don’t look so gloomy! I hope we’ll all be merrier than we have been -- now that I’m home again.”
For Charles the next fortnight was indeed merry. There were festivities of many kinds. Musicals and balls, supper parties and theaters; there was a masquerade at the Duchess of Cleveland’s. Through Dr. Radcliffe’s hospitable drawing rooms there flowed a stream of the illustrious, mostly Tories and frequently Jacobites, for such were the wealthy old Doctor’s own convictions. Since the arrival of the young Earl and his family, Roman Catholics were also invited. Dr. Radcliffe was a dedicated Anglican, but he was also a man of the world, and willing to abey his prejudices to please Lord Derwentwater, for he was very proud of the kinship. Besides, he was rapidly growing fond of James.
So was Charles. In all his anxious, resentful imaginings about his-elder brother, he had never suspected that he might find James admirable, that he might feel love for him. Yet so it proved. James; was kind; despite his small stature he had a strong, composed dignity,-And James was exceedingly generous.
A fashionable green velvet suit and brocaded waistcoat were made for Charles. He was given a small flaxen tie wig -- not, naturally, a long full-bottomed one like James’s, which would have been suitable neither to his age nor rank. Charles was given a sword with gilt scabbard and hilt. He was given fine linen shirts with lace ruffles, and he even took to washing himself occasionally, so delighted was he with the young gallant he now saw in the mirror.
Two women also contributed to Charles’s new interest in his appearance. One was the beautiful Duchess of Bolton and the other was Lady Betty Lee, who became a frequent companion at balls or in a theater box, or at Dr. Radcliffe’s gatherings.
Betty Lee was nearly as unused to fashionable life as Charles. She was also sixteen, and this was her first winter in London, for she had been raised quietly in the country at Ditchley Park, Oxfordshire, where her father, the Earl of Lichfield, had retired from public life after refusing to take the oaths of allegiance to William III.
“As for Mama,” said Betty one day to Charles in the Radcliffe drawing room, “she had a baby every year or so for eighteen years -- and no time for gadding. But now all the older ones are settled, so Mama’s come here to see what the London marriage mart’ll offer me!”
“How perplexing,” said Charles laughing at her. She always rattled on and it was hard to take her seriously.
This was on a snowy twilight two days before Christmas, and Dr. Radcliffe had asked several friends to drop in for a collation -- coffee or chocolate, cakes and madeira. Lady Lichfield had arrived early with Betty. She bestowed an absent-minded frown on Charles but allowed him to lead the girl to a sofa by the windows. The Countess herself drifted towards another matron, Lady Stamford. The middle-aged ladies each accepted a cup of chocolate from a footman, then settled near the fire to gossip.
Francis Radcliffe was at the gaming table in the alcove playing ombre with two Catholic barons. The elder, Lord Widdrington, was a Northumbrian, a spindling paunchy man of thirty with chronic indigestion and a touch of gout in his left foot. He played irritably, slapping down the cards and cursing when they were trumped. The other baron was little Lord Petre, who was only nineteen, undersized, and somewhat like a whippet. His round eyes darted anxious looks at Francis, who played languidly, never seemed to glance at his cards but always won.
Dr. Radcliffe had not yet returned, having been called out to treat the Duke of Beaufort,
Charles looked blank. “I -- I haven’t, my lord.”
“Ah well,” said James with his quick, warm smile. “You will. And don’t look so gloomy! I hope we’ll all be merrier than we have been -- now that I’m home again.”
For Charles the next fortnight was indeed merry. There were festivities of many kinds. Musicals and balls, supper parties and theaters; there was a masquerade at the Duchess of Cleveland’s. Through Dr. Radcliffe’s hospitable drawing rooms there flowed a stream of the illustrious, mostly Tories and frequently Jacobites, for such were the wealthy old Doctor’s own convictions. Since the arrival of the young Earl and his family, Roman Catholics were also invited. Dr. Radcliffe was a dedicated Anglican, but he was also a man of the world, and willing to abey his prejudices to please Lord Derwentwater, for he was very proud of the kinship. Besides, he was rapidly growing fond of James.
So was Charles. In all his anxious, resentful imaginings about his-elder brother, he had never suspected that he might find James admirable, that he might feel love for him. Yet so it proved. James; was kind; despite his small stature he had a strong, composed dignity,-And James was exceedingly generous.
A fashionable green velvet suit and brocaded waistcoat were made for Charles. He was given a small flaxen tie wig -- not, naturally, a long full-bottomed one like James’s, which would have been suitable neither to his age nor rank. Charles was given a sword with gilt scabbard and hilt. He was given fine linen shirts with lace ruffles, and he even took to washing himself occasionally, so delighted was he with the young gallant he now saw in the mirror.
Two women also contributed to Charles’s new interest in his appearance. One was the beautiful Duchess of Bolton and the other was Lady Betty Lee, who became a frequent companion at balls or in a theater box, or at Dr. Radcliffe’s gatherings.
Betty Lee was nearly as unused to fashionable life as Charles. She was also sixteen, and this was her first winter in London, for she had been raised quietly in the country at Ditchley Park, Oxfordshire, where her father, the Earl of Lichfield, had retired from public life after refusing to take the oaths of allegiance to William III.
“As for Mama,” said Betty one day to Charles in the Radcliffe drawing room, “she had a baby every year or so for eighteen years -- and no time for gadding. But now all the older ones are settled, so Mama’s come here to see what the London marriage mart’ll offer me!”
“How perplexing,” said Charles laughing at her. She always rattled on and it was hard to take her seriously.
This was on a snowy twilight two days before Christmas, and Dr. Radcliffe had asked several friends to drop in for a collation -- coffee or chocolate, cakes and madeira. Lady Lichfield had arrived early with Betty. She bestowed an absent-minded frown on Charles but allowed him to lead the girl to a sofa by the windows. The Countess herself drifted towards another matron, Lady Stamford. The middle-aged ladies each accepted a cup of chocolate from a footman, then settled near the fire to gossip.
Francis Radcliffe was at the gaming table in the alcove playing ombre with two Catholic barons. The elder, Lord Widdrington, was a Northumbrian, a spindling paunchy man of thirty with chronic indigestion and a touch of gout in his left foot. He played irritably, slapping down the cards and cursing when they were trumped. The other baron was little Lord Petre, who was only nineteen, undersized, and somewhat like a whippet. His round eyes darted anxious looks at Francis, who played languidly, never seemed to glance at his cards but always won.
Dr. Radcliffe had not yet returned, having been called out to treat the Duke of Beaufort,
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