herself. I wondered how she and Philip Ord were dealing together; she’d been head over heels in love with him, like the innocent girl she was, and he’d had a great
desire for her father’s dowry, like the ruthless businessman he was. And twenty years difference in age between them...
“There was something else,” Fowler said, pausing in drawing the razor down my left cheek.
Dozy again and trying to keep at bay that nagging ache that kept prodding at the back of my head, I said lazily, “What?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror; light winked off the razor’s edge. “Don’t get Heron involved in anything dangerous.”
Yes, I thought, staring into his reflected gaze, there was still a considerable portion of the ruffian lurking beneath Fowler’s bland exterior. “I can’t govern what Heron
does,” I pointed out.
His mouth twisted wryly. “No one can. I know that better than anyone. But you don’t need to encourage him.”
I knew that wasn’t a request. It was a warning.
8
There is no culture here. They have a fetish for some composer of German origin, who writes Italian operas. I long to introduce them to true opera, the French operas
of M. Rameau.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 6 May 1736]
On my way down to breakfast, I heard low furious voices coming from one of the bedrooms. It took me a moment to work out that the room in question was the Alysons’.
Husband and wife, if that was what they truly were, were having a bitter argument. I couldn’t quite hear what was being said; I hurried on, before I could be tempted to eavesdrop.
The breakfast room was a small chamber in the corner of one of the turrets; a long table and a longer sideboard loaded with serving dishes were pretty much the only furniture. I couldn’t
understand why anyone should have a room especially for breakfast when they already had a perfectly good dining room.
There were only two occupants. The severe gentleman who had been eying Esther yesterday was reading one of the London newspapers over a massive plate of eggs and devilled kidneys; on the other
side of the table, Casper Fischer was just rising from his chair. He looked far too alert for a man who’d not been long out of his bed.
“My dear sir, are you well?” He greeted me with enthusiasm. “I hear one of the local villains had a go at you last night.”
I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened; Fischer sympathised wholeheartedly. His tone was just right, conveying sufficient sympathy to make me feel he was genuinely concerned for
my well-being, but not lingering on the matter so long as to embarrass me.
“You need some fresh air,” he said at last. “Marvellous for clearing a bruised head. I was just about to go for a walk. Nothing too long – only four or five miles. Why
don’t you come with me?”
“I’ll probably have to play for one of the ladies,” I said, trying to sound regretful.
“Of course,” he said immediately, without rancour. “Work must always come first.”
Now that was a sentiment I’d never expected to hear in a gentleman’s house.
The severe gentleman cleared his throat, obviously annoyed at our talking; Fischer went off for his walk and I helped myself to coffee and a plate of bread and cheese. Sitting under that fierce
glare would probably curdle the milk, so I retired to the library. But it was already occupied by Heron, writing letters at the large table in the middle of the room. He had a dish of coffee and a
slice of toast to one side, and was dressed in sombre brown, clothes more suitable for a day’s work on his estates than for a houseparty. He glanced up as I came in, finished his sentence and
put down his pen.
“I’ve been to the village,” he said.
“Fowler said you had,” I admitted. “My thanks for lending me his assistance, sir.”
He waved away my gratitude. “I have spoken to the local justice. There are no poachers in this area.”
I laughed, and
desire for her father’s dowry, like the ruthless businessman he was. And twenty years difference in age between them...
“There was something else,” Fowler said, pausing in drawing the razor down my left cheek.
Dozy again and trying to keep at bay that nagging ache that kept prodding at the back of my head, I said lazily, “What?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror; light winked off the razor’s edge. “Don’t get Heron involved in anything dangerous.”
Yes, I thought, staring into his reflected gaze, there was still a considerable portion of the ruffian lurking beneath Fowler’s bland exterior. “I can’t govern what Heron
does,” I pointed out.
His mouth twisted wryly. “No one can. I know that better than anyone. But you don’t need to encourage him.”
I knew that wasn’t a request. It was a warning.
8
There is no culture here. They have a fetish for some composer of German origin, who writes Italian operas. I long to introduce them to true opera, the French operas
of M. Rameau.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 6 May 1736]
On my way down to breakfast, I heard low furious voices coming from one of the bedrooms. It took me a moment to work out that the room in question was the Alysons’.
Husband and wife, if that was what they truly were, were having a bitter argument. I couldn’t quite hear what was being said; I hurried on, before I could be tempted to eavesdrop.
The breakfast room was a small chamber in the corner of one of the turrets; a long table and a longer sideboard loaded with serving dishes were pretty much the only furniture. I couldn’t
understand why anyone should have a room especially for breakfast when they already had a perfectly good dining room.
There were only two occupants. The severe gentleman who had been eying Esther yesterday was reading one of the London newspapers over a massive plate of eggs and devilled kidneys; on the other
side of the table, Casper Fischer was just rising from his chair. He looked far too alert for a man who’d not been long out of his bed.
“My dear sir, are you well?” He greeted me with enthusiasm. “I hear one of the local villains had a go at you last night.”
I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened; Fischer sympathised wholeheartedly. His tone was just right, conveying sufficient sympathy to make me feel he was genuinely concerned for
my well-being, but not lingering on the matter so long as to embarrass me.
“You need some fresh air,” he said at last. “Marvellous for clearing a bruised head. I was just about to go for a walk. Nothing too long – only four or five miles. Why
don’t you come with me?”
“I’ll probably have to play for one of the ladies,” I said, trying to sound regretful.
“Of course,” he said immediately, without rancour. “Work must always come first.”
Now that was a sentiment I’d never expected to hear in a gentleman’s house.
The severe gentleman cleared his throat, obviously annoyed at our talking; Fischer went off for his walk and I helped myself to coffee and a plate of bread and cheese. Sitting under that fierce
glare would probably curdle the milk, so I retired to the library. But it was already occupied by Heron, writing letters at the large table in the middle of the room. He had a dish of coffee and a
slice of toast to one side, and was dressed in sombre brown, clothes more suitable for a day’s work on his estates than for a houseparty. He glanced up as I came in, finished his sentence and
put down his pen.
“I’ve been to the village,” he said.
“Fowler said you had,” I admitted. “My thanks for lending me his assistance, sir.”
He waved away my gratitude. “I have spoken to the local justice. There are no poachers in this area.”
I laughed, and
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