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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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quiet life on Malta, but otherwise spoke rarely of herself. It was Philippa she was eager to know about; Philippa’s father and the war against the Scots; the coming of Tom Erskine to their door for the first time; and Lymond.
She asked Philippa directly, at last, why she disliked Lord Culter’s younger brother and Philippa, hot-cheeked under three years’ silence, told of the wartime raid when Lymond had broken into the house and had questioned her, a child of ten, against her parents’ wishes. The long room; Gideon, whitefaced, begging the stranger to leave the child alone; and Kate hugging her on her knees, her cheeks wet with tears.
‘But your parents overlooked it, didn’t they?’ said Joleta in her sane, friendly voice. ‘And you aren’t enemies now.’ They were brushing each other’s hair, Joleta’s firm fingers dragging the brush swiftly and effectively over and over through Philippa’s insignificant locks. Her own, in a single shining fall, reached to her hips over her robe; and her robe fell, as it should, over the soft rises of her young body. Philippa, flat as a kipper in front, said savagely, ‘What’s it matter? He could browbeat a child, whatever the motive. And he lives like a hog. I hate him.’ And to her own horror, Philippa broke into tears.
Joleta’s warm arms enfolded her, and Joleta’s freckled cheek pressed against her own. ‘Pippa, listen,’ said the clear voice in her ear. ‘Middle-aged ladies often imagine they have fallen in love. It doesn’t mean anything. Your mother is very sensible, you know.’
Philippa Somerville’s head jerked back, then her body, as she forced herself from Joleta’s gentle clasp. Then, stuffing a not over-clean hand into her mouth, Kate’s daughter fled from the room.
She and Joleta continued to meet and talk after that, but never again lapsed into the topic of Kate’s private affections. Nor, to do Joleta justice, did she give the matter more than a passing, fanciful thought. It was Philippa who could not bear to have her mind read.
*
Kate was relieved of her guests, in the end, by Tom Erskine himself, on his way back from weeks of negotiating the final terms of the peace treaty between Scotland and England at Norham.
Although he could not be said to understand Sybilla, Dowager Lady Culter and her two sons, Tom Erskine was haplessly fond of them all. And on receiving Lord Culter’s request that he shouldreturn via Flaw Valleys and escort the recovered Joleta and her governess to the Culter home at Midculter castle, he had no trouble in imagining the arguments that polite request had provoked.
In strict fact, there had been the nearest thing to outright battle that had ever occurred at the Culters’. Richard had said, receiving a cramped and colourless note from Madame Donati, ‘That Malta girl is better again.’
‘Well?’ had said his mother unhelpfully, while his wife, straightening out a smile, bent over her sewing.
‘Where’s she to go? Have you got her into a convent?’
‘Why, is she entering religion?’ had inquired Sybilla, her blue eyes amazed.
Richard had paused for a fresh breath. ‘She has to stay somewhere until her brother comes for her. Do you want him to find we’ve put her into Sandilands’s care, knowing what he’s like?’
‘Well then, she’d better come here, hadn’t she?’ said the Dowager absently, picking up some silks Mariotta had dropped. Her daughter-in-law shot her a swift look and bent again to her task. Experience with the Scottish family she had married into at least had taught her when to keep quiet.
‘Mariotta has the child. To ask her to look after another—’
‘Mariotta sees her son just as often as you do, and no more; and quite right too, with the best wet-nurse in Lanarkshire looking after him. In any case, I gather the girl is sixteen, not six months, and your real concern is in case we open a brothel?’
‘ Mother !’ said Lord Culter and went scarlet, something only
She asked Philippa directly, at last, why she disliked Lord Culter’s younger brother and Philippa, hot-cheeked under three years’ silence, told of the wartime raid when Lymond had broken into the house and had questioned her, a child of ten, against her parents’ wishes. The long room; Gideon, whitefaced, begging the stranger to leave the child alone; and Kate hugging her on her knees, her cheeks wet with tears.
‘But your parents overlooked it, didn’t they?’ said Joleta in her sane, friendly voice. ‘And you aren’t enemies now.’ They were brushing each other’s hair, Joleta’s firm fingers dragging the brush swiftly and effectively over and over through Philippa’s insignificant locks. Her own, in a single shining fall, reached to her hips over her robe; and her robe fell, as it should, over the soft rises of her young body. Philippa, flat as a kipper in front, said savagely, ‘What’s it matter? He could browbeat a child, whatever the motive. And he lives like a hog. I hate him.’ And to her own horror, Philippa broke into tears.
Joleta’s warm arms enfolded her, and Joleta’s freckled cheek pressed against her own. ‘Pippa, listen,’ said the clear voice in her ear. ‘Middle-aged ladies often imagine they have fallen in love. It doesn’t mean anything. Your mother is very sensible, you know.’
Philippa Somerville’s head jerked back, then her body, as she forced herself from Joleta’s gentle clasp. Then, stuffing a not over-clean hand into her mouth, Kate’s daughter fled from the room.
She and Joleta continued to meet and talk after that, but never again lapsed into the topic of Kate’s private affections. Nor, to do Joleta justice, did she give the matter more than a passing, fanciful thought. It was Philippa who could not bear to have her mind read.
*
Kate was relieved of her guests, in the end, by Tom Erskine himself, on his way back from weeks of negotiating the final terms of the peace treaty between Scotland and England at Norham.
Although he could not be said to understand Sybilla, Dowager Lady Culter and her two sons, Tom Erskine was haplessly fond of them all. And on receiving Lord Culter’s request that he shouldreturn via Flaw Valleys and escort the recovered Joleta and her governess to the Culter home at Midculter castle, he had no trouble in imagining the arguments that polite request had provoked.
In strict fact, there had been the nearest thing to outright battle that had ever occurred at the Culters’. Richard had said, receiving a cramped and colourless note from Madame Donati, ‘That Malta girl is better again.’
‘Well?’ had said his mother unhelpfully, while his wife, straightening out a smile, bent over her sewing.
‘Where’s she to go? Have you got her into a convent?’
‘Why, is she entering religion?’ had inquired Sybilla, her blue eyes amazed.
Richard had paused for a fresh breath. ‘She has to stay somewhere until her brother comes for her. Do you want him to find we’ve put her into Sandilands’s care, knowing what he’s like?’
‘Well then, she’d better come here, hadn’t she?’ said the Dowager absently, picking up some silks Mariotta had dropped. Her daughter-in-law shot her a swift look and bent again to her task. Experience with the Scottish family she had married into at least had taught her when to keep quiet.
‘Mariotta has the child. To ask her to look after another—’
‘Mariotta sees her son just as often as you do, and no more; and quite right too, with the best wet-nurse in Lanarkshire looking after him. In any case, I gather the girl is sixteen, not six months, and your real concern is in case we open a brothel?’
‘ Mother !’ said Lord Culter and went scarlet, something only
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