Read Online Dido and Pa by Joan Aiken - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Aiken
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Fathers and daughters, Adventure and Adventurers, Parents
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Not this side of Habbakuk Corner. She is a veritable chip off the old block—an unbidden, unchidden spirit—"
"Unchidden, Pa?"
"Hold your hush, will you!" snapped Mr. Twite, and dragged Dido still faster.
He was a most awkward person to walk along the street
with, as he looked neither to right nor left, choosing a way for himself, but taking no account of whether Dido was obliged to hop over obstacles, or round people coming in the other direction, or over holes, or through puddles.
The streets they passed along, at first narrow, black, and murky, gradually became wider and more respectable. But this part of London was notably quiet. Perhaps it was the unseasonably early snow, or the time of day, but hardly a soul was to be met in the street, not a passerby, not a chaise, not a wagon, not a tumbril. A few of the margrave's cloaked and hatted guards stood in their places or went about their business, whatever that was. There were no women to be seen, no children. Where did all the lollpoops go, Dido wondered, who lodged nightly in Mrs. Bloodvessel's basement? Did they take themselves off to livelier parts of the town, to make their living in the streets?
"Who is the margrave of Bad Thingummy, Pa?"
"He's a great man, daughter—that's what he is. His anciggle-
hic
-ancestors go all the way back through history—all the way back to Adam. He's an aristocrat. And—what's more to the purpose—he's a musician. He values music as he ought. Got more of it in his little finger than old King Jamie had in his whole corpus. And if—and if matters fall out as hoped," said Mr. Twite, hesitating for a moment and then going on rapidly, "if ciggle-circumstances fall out prosperously for us,
then
your old da will be conducting the Phiggle-harmonic Orchestra, and will be appointed musician to the royal bedchamber and master of the king's music. How about
that,
my chickabiddy? Us'll have a mansion
in the Strand, a carriage and four, and twenty footmen to open the door when you come in outa the street. And a page in buttons for your very own."
Dido found and held the brass button in the pocket of her sheepskin coat.
Did that boy carry my message? she wondered. And then felt an icy chill of fear as she recalled her father's warning. Even if I do manage to scarper off, I better not go near Simon. Pa really meant what he said, I'm sure of that.
Reckon I'd better stay with Pa, and do this job, whatever it is?
At the end of a fairly wide street Mr. Twite and his daughter stopped in front of a handsome brick mansion, approached by a noble curving flight of brick steps. A porter in a box by an impressive pair of iron gates stepped out, inspected a card that Mr. Twite showed him, then nodded and gestured them in. Another man, at the double front doors, inquired, "Name?"
"You know me, Fred!"
"Name?" repeated the man impassively.
"Bredalbane, for Habbakuk's sake! And this is my little chick-child."
"Name?"
"Dido. I told you that, I dunnamany times!"
"Mr. Bredalbane and Miss Dido Bredalbane!" bawled the doorman, and they ascended another flight of stairs. Rows of pages, dressed in black velvet suits, stood on either side, looking at nothing. Boring for 'em, thought Dido. The house was very grand, with crystal chandeliers, gilt chairs,
marble statues, and thick velvet carpets. Dido, cold and dripping in her wet midshipman's trousers, began to feel out of place. Still, it's warm here, she thought; that's one blessing.
They turned off the main staircase and Mr. Twite led the way along a gallery, down more marble steps, and into a little black and white music room. It was circular, with a white marble floor and columns, and two rings of gray velvet-covered benches. Four musicians sat waiting for Mr. Twite. From their patient look, they had been waiting for a long time. One sat ready at a harpsichord, two held hoboys, and the last one had a fagott. Mr. Twite nodded briefly at them, picked up another hoboy which had been lying ready on a
"Unchidden, Pa?"
"Hold your hush, will you!" snapped Mr. Twite, and dragged Dido still faster.
He was a most awkward person to walk along the street
with, as he looked neither to right nor left, choosing a way for himself, but taking no account of whether Dido was obliged to hop over obstacles, or round people coming in the other direction, or over holes, or through puddles.
The streets they passed along, at first narrow, black, and murky, gradually became wider and more respectable. But this part of London was notably quiet. Perhaps it was the unseasonably early snow, or the time of day, but hardly a soul was to be met in the street, not a passerby, not a chaise, not a wagon, not a tumbril. A few of the margrave's cloaked and hatted guards stood in their places or went about their business, whatever that was. There were no women to be seen, no children. Where did all the lollpoops go, Dido wondered, who lodged nightly in Mrs. Bloodvessel's basement? Did they take themselves off to livelier parts of the town, to make their living in the streets?
"Who is the margrave of Bad Thingummy, Pa?"
"He's a great man, daughter—that's what he is. His anciggle-
hic
-ancestors go all the way back through history—all the way back to Adam. He's an aristocrat. And—what's more to the purpose—he's a musician. He values music as he ought. Got more of it in his little finger than old King Jamie had in his whole corpus. And if—and if matters fall out as hoped," said Mr. Twite, hesitating for a moment and then going on rapidly, "if ciggle-circumstances fall out prosperously for us,
then
your old da will be conducting the Phiggle-harmonic Orchestra, and will be appointed musician to the royal bedchamber and master of the king's music. How about
that,
my chickabiddy? Us'll have a mansion
in the Strand, a carriage and four, and twenty footmen to open the door when you come in outa the street. And a page in buttons for your very own."
Dido found and held the brass button in the pocket of her sheepskin coat.
Did that boy carry my message? she wondered. And then felt an icy chill of fear as she recalled her father's warning. Even if I do manage to scarper off, I better not go near Simon. Pa really meant what he said, I'm sure of that.
Reckon I'd better stay with Pa, and do this job, whatever it is?
At the end of a fairly wide street Mr. Twite and his daughter stopped in front of a handsome brick mansion, approached by a noble curving flight of brick steps. A porter in a box by an impressive pair of iron gates stepped out, inspected a card that Mr. Twite showed him, then nodded and gestured them in. Another man, at the double front doors, inquired, "Name?"
"You know me, Fred!"
"Name?" repeated the man impassively.
"Bredalbane, for Habbakuk's sake! And this is my little chick-child."
"Name?"
"Dido. I told you that, I dunnamany times!"
"Mr. Bredalbane and Miss Dido Bredalbane!" bawled the doorman, and they ascended another flight of stairs. Rows of pages, dressed in black velvet suits, stood on either side, looking at nothing. Boring for 'em, thought Dido. The house was very grand, with crystal chandeliers, gilt chairs,
marble statues, and thick velvet carpets. Dido, cold and dripping in her wet midshipman's trousers, began to feel out of place. Still, it's warm here, she thought; that's one blessing.
They turned off the main staircase and Mr. Twite led the way along a gallery, down more marble steps, and into a little black and white music room. It was circular, with a white marble floor and columns, and two rings of gray velvet-covered benches. Four musicians sat waiting for Mr. Twite. From their patient look, they had been waiting for a long time. One sat ready at a harpsichord, two held hoboys, and the last one had a fagott. Mr. Twite nodded briefly at them, picked up another hoboy which had been lying ready on a
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