by Anya Seton
THREE
The Thursday following the visit to the Queen was Epiphany, and Dr. Radcliffe always celebrated the Twelfth Night of Christmas with rich observance of the ancient customs. He had decided on a small intimate gathering at his home, before the revelry continued at a ball given by the Duke and Duchess of Ormond. These festivities were also to constitute a London farewell for the Earl, who was heading north on the next Monday.
Charles viewed Dr. Radcliffe’s Twelfth Night party with alarm, since both the Duchess of Bolton and Lady Betty Lee had been invited, and he saw no means of being comfortable near either of them. With the Duchess he had been playing a belated Joseph. Twice she had sent Juba to the Radcliffes bearing surreptitious letters for Charles, one beseeching him and the other haughtily commanding him to appear at Bolton House as before. Charles had sent back terse, misspelled notes saying that he had an ague and dared not go out. He felt an utter fool, especially as he could no longer remember what her early fascination for him had been. And he resented being forced into deceit. His uneasiness had been apparent to James, who entered Charles’s bedroom one day and in the course of their interview evoked the fresh embarrassment which had to do with Betty Lee.
Charles was crouching by the fire and actually leafing through his Missal when James entered -- an occupation so unusual that James stared, then said, “Why, Brother, I’m glad to see you so well employed. You’re going to confession tonight?”
Charles nodded gloomily. “I hope Mr. Petre won’t be too hard on me.”
James lifted his eyebrows. Father Benjamin Petre was a stout, worldly priest who had spent these last years at St. Germain as tutor to James and Francis. Since their return to London the priest had been visiting his Petre relatives in Essex, but was now back at his post as family chaplain. “Mr. Petre’ll be no harder on you than you deserve,” said James noncommittally. “I don’t want to pry, but I know you’ve something on your conscience, and it may be I could help. ‘Tis a woman, I presume?”
Charles nodded again, and looking up into his brother’s kind, composed face he blurted out the whole story of his miserable affair with the Duchess. Then, as James made no comment but listened gravely, Charles suddenly found himself speaking -- though in a casual way -- of a girl up North.
James was startled and inwardly amused. A pitman’s lass and a duchess already, though the boy had only turned sixteen in September!
“I see,” said James. “We all have our particular sins to struggle against, and yours I am beginning to think is lechery. Mr. Petre will concern himself with your spiritual direction, but I’ve been thinking of a material remedy too. An early marriage, my dear Charles, will help you.”
“Marriage!” Charles repeated in so horrified a voice that James touched him affectionately on the hand.
“Not at once, of course, and you’ll get used to the idea. Besides I know you like the lady, and she seems very fond of you.”
“Who?” whispered Charles, recoiling.
“Why, our cousin, Betty Lee. Lady Lichfield had already approached me on the subject, and though at first I was dismayed because Betty is Protestant, I began to see the advantages for you. And we can pray that, as so often happens to a wife, Betty will convert.”
“But, good lord!” cried Charles. “The Lichfields wanted you! And I -- why I’ve never thought of Betty that way. Nor she me!”
“I take leave to doubt the latter,” said James smiling, “if what her mother says is true. As for your feelings, Charles, I wonder if you know them? No one will force you, naturally. I just want you to think about it.”
James ignored Charles’s outburst that the Lichfields had first thought of himself for Betty, because he did not wish to explain that his ideal wife would be someone quite different. She would be quiet and, convent-bred, well schooled to the responsibilities incumbent on the head of a great Catholic family. The rattling, heedless Betty did not answer James’s needs though he thought she might suit Charles very well. Nor was Charles apt to have so good a chance again. Younger brothers seldom did. In fact, not having had the benefit of Lady Lichfield’s private musings on the night when Dr. Radcliffe announced the coming audience with the Queen, and being himself without guile, James had been astonished at the offer. He had put it down to parental fondness, swayed by the girl’s feelings, and he was quite sure that Charles would in time find the marriage desirable.
James was right, and Charles’s capitulation came much sooner than he had expected.
Dr. Radcliffe spared no pains to insure his guests’ pleasure on Twelfth Night. His spacious rooms had all been decorated with fresh garlands of holly and ivy. Nearly a thousand wax candles sparkled on the crystal of sconces and candelabra; the main fires were stoked with sweet-smelling applewood. He had also hired musicians, and placed them in the drawing room alcove. When Charles walked in trying to look unconcerned, flute, fiddles, and guitar were playing a lively rendition of “The Gloucestershire Carol.”
Charles saw with acute relief that it was still only a family party; outside guests had not yet arrived. Dr. Radcliffe sat in his great walnut chair by the fire, beaming like a Father Christmas and waving a silver cup full of brandy punch while he sang with the music, “Wassail, Wassail all over the town, Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown . . .” though nothing so unsophisticated as bread and ale would be served tonight. “Ha, Charles!” he cried. “Go talk to your little sister, before a more interesting young lady arrives!” He gave a prodigious wink, by which Charles understood that the Doctor must have heard something of negotiations with the Lichfields, though nobody but James and Father Petre knew of the entanglement with the Duchess, whom Dr. Radcliffe continued to dote on.
Charles bowed unsmiling and joined James, who was sitting on the sofa with their sister, Lady Mary, and her friend Anna Maria Webb on either side of him. Both little girls had been released from the convent for the occasion. Charles had seen his sister but once, and didn’t know what to say to her, though she greeted him prettily and held out a wax doll for his inspection. “Thee my baby, Brother Charleth,” she said with a lisp, which made her seem younger than her twelve years. “I embroidered her gown mythelf, the nuns taught me.” Charles murmured something and patted the doll, while James said, “They’ve taught you well, Molly.” He turned to the other girl. “I’m sure you embroider too, Miss Webb?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Anna. “I’m working on an altar cloth. Sister Hilda says I am too old for toys.” She sighed, her large dark eyes looked wistful. She was a tiny little thing who gave promise of beauty someday, though she did not look even as old as Mary, so James asked smiling, “You cannot be so very aged, I think?”
“Fourteen, my lord,” she answered solemnly. “Mama agrees with the sisters that I must now spend my time in serious study for a year. I dislike arithmetic,” she added shaking her sleek dark head.
“Do you indeed?” James laughed. “And what do you like? Music, for instance?” He nodded towards the alcove, where the fiddlers were playing a gay number from Purcell’s Fairy Queen.
“Oh yes, my lord!” Her little pink mouth widened in a smile. “I can play the virginals, and sing parts.”
“Ah,” said James courteously. “You have tastes like mine.” His own words startled him, and he thought quickly of what he knew about the girl. She was the eldest daughter of a baronet, Sir John Webb, who was a wealthy Catholic land owner in Dorset. James, upon his arrival in London, had investigated the background of Mary’s great friend and found her a suitable companion for his sister. The Mother Superior spoke highly of Anna’s breeding and intelligence. It would be interesting to see what she was like in a couple of years. James put the thought aside and, turning to Mary, included both girls in his questions about their convent life, thus releasing Charles, who was far too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his little sister.
He glanced at Francis, who was standing in a corner speaking French with Father Petre. Francis looked sulky, because there would be
no gaming here tonight, and the priest was endeavoring to divert him with an anecdote he had heard about a duel recently fought at St. Germain. The priest was the only person in the world who had any real influence on Francis, and that influence had waned of late.
Charles walked restlessly past the two and settled near his uncle, Colonel Thomas Radcliffe. The elderly man, dressed in his scarlet regimentals, had been brought downstairs tonight and sat in a corner behind the fire screen, where Dr. Radcliffe could keep an eye on him. The bouts of madness had lessened owing to the laudanum and henbane the Doctor had been giving him, but the Colonel’s behavior was unpredictable. He greeted Charles with trembling eagerness and said, “Nephew, nephew, ye won’t let ‘em put me in Bedlam, will ye? That’s what he wants to do. I heard him whispering.”
“Oh no, Uncle,” said Charles kindly. “Neither the Doctor nor James would dream of such a thing.”
“Not them! I don’t mean them!” The thin blue-veined hands waved in agitation, he leaned towards Charles whispering. “ ‘Tis old Scrat, ye know who I mean, he’s hiding now behind yon door, I can see his cloven hoof, can’t you?”
Charles shook his head. “The dev -- that is, Old Scrat -- wouldn’t dare come here on Twelfth Night. Why ‘tis Epiphany and we’ve all been to Mass!”
This seemed to satisfy the Colonel, who crossed himself, said “Ave Maria!” and, resting his head on his hand, went to sleep. At that moment Lady Lichfield and Betty were announced. They had brought a gentleman with them, a cousin of Lord Lichfield’s called Francis Lee. He seemed an agreeable, stout, ruddy-faced man, but he made no impression on Charles, who was busy bowing and trying to avoid Betty’s eye. It took Charles a while to realize that Betty was equally anxious to avoid his. In fact she was barely civil, and kept her back turned to him as she carried on an interrupted conversation with her cousin, whom she called “Dear Frank” in a determined, breathless voice. Betty wore a new green gown which became her. The auburn hair, freshly coiffed, was piled high on her head, and this lengthened her round face. She wore a pearl necklace and earrings and was altogether more elegant than Charles had ever seen her. He stole thoughtful glances at her. So did Dr. Radcliffe, who was puzzled at her obvious avoidance of Charles. The bachelor Doctor enjoyed matchmaking, and had thought this one settled, but he now perceived there was something wrong between the young people. He left the drawing room and went to the kitchens, where he gave certain directions.
Upon his return the Duchess of Bolton and Mr. Paulet were announced. Henrietta swept in with her usual assurance, while her cavalier minced after her, a willowy, chinless sprig from the ducal tree whose hard pale eyes belied his general appearance of fawning effeminacy. Henrietta, dressed for the Ormond ball later, was resplendent in red velvet and as many of the Bolton jewels as she could arrange about her person. There was no denying her beauty, and the Doctor was in ecstasies; but for Charles there was no lessening of disgust. He now knew too well the corruption of soul and body which lay beneath this glittering surface, and he prayed that the Duchess had found someone else to satisfy her lusts and would ignore him -- a hope quite inconsistent with Henrietta’s character. She attacked at once, as soon as he had kissed the air above the hand she held out to him.
“Ah -- Mr. Radcliffe,” she said with great solicitude. “Have you quite recovered from the ague which I heard has confined you to the house all week?”
“Ague? Ague?” put in the Doctor laughing, before Charles could speak. “Why, my darling Duchess, you’ve been misinformed. This is the healthiest young dog that ever I saw, and not a day’s passed but he’s been out sampling our city’s pleasures. Make hay while the sun shines -- eh, Charles? For it won’t shine much in Northumberland, I’ll wager.”
“Indeed,” said the Duchess. There was a pause. “How relieved I am that I was misinformed.” Her lids drooped over the sapphire eyes, but not before Charles had seen in them a glint of pure malignancy. James too caught the glint, and was not surprised, having observed in France the fury of a fading woman scorned. Still, there was no particular mischief she could do, James thought. He leapt in to divert her from Charles, who stood tongue-tied.
“What a magnificent brooch you are wearing, your grace! I’m sure it has a history, though none of its former owners can have been as lovely as this one!”
Angry though she was, Henrietta could not resist a tribute, and she allowed James to draw from her the history of the Bolton brooch. While she talked she glanced several times at Mr. Paulet, who was lolling against the mantel, and once at Juba, who stood by the door holding her fan and pomander ball.
Betty had watched the contretemps, and was first pleased by Charles’s embarrassment, then sorry for him, then relieved as the meaning of it came to her. Charles, the idiot, had certainly philandered with the Duchess, and as certainly tired of it and fobbed the great lady off with excuses, thus alleviating one part of Betty’s own discomfort with Charles. Jealousy. She had faced this in herself since their last meeting, and further faced the undeniable fact that one wasn’t jealous unless another emotion was also present. This discovery had cost her many tears. Tears which had not escaped her mother, who commanded to know the cause of them and seemed not ill pleased when she found out. Betty had then passionately exacted a promise that Lady Lichfield would never never breathe a word of this to anyone. “For Charles doesn’t love me, and I’m not sure I care for him, and anyway I’d die if he came to know anything.”
Lady Lichfield soothingly promised, and broke the promise at once by hurrying off to find Lord Derwentwater, with the first tentative offer of Betty’s hand. She did not confide in her daughter, partly to shield Betty from possible disappointment, and partly because the child’s further emotions had now no bearing on the matter at all, though Charles’s had; and Lady Lichfield had tonight shrewdly brought along their cousin Frank Lee and instructed Betty to flirt with him, so that the situation might not look too pointed.
At seven Dr. Radcliffe rose. The time had come for the feast. Mr. Lee hastily made his excuses and told Betty he would see her later at the ball. Mr. Petre gathered up Colonel Radcliffe, who was still drowsy, and said that he would make sure the poor man was safely consigned to his valet before his own retirement for private devotions.
That left a party of ten, who proceeded to the dining room followed by the musicians. In the hall the Duchess created a slight diversion by relinquishing Dr. Radcliffe’s arm as she cried, “Oh, Paulet! I have forgot a message to you from the Duke! I vow my memory worsens daily! ‘Tis of rather a private nature --” she lowered her voice in an aside to Dr. Radcliffe, “to do with the governorship, you know -- and I really must speak to the man a minute, if I may?”
“Of course, dear madam,” said the Doctor. “In the anteroom there?” Henrietta gave him her dazzling smile and walked into the anteroom, followed by Paulet and Juba. She shut the door.
The company waited, and Dr. Radcliffe said importantly, “ ‘Tis not generally known that the Duke of Bolton may resign his governorship on the Isle of Wight in favor of Ireland, some such thing is in the wind. I believe Mr. Paulet is often used as confidential agent.”
“Useful man, I expect,” Francis drawled suddenly, “ ‘Id do anything his masters pay him to, I’m sure. We should have one like that in our family, James.”
“I see no particular need for such,” said the Earl pleasantly. And they continued to wait until Henrietta reappeared with Paulet and Juba trotted to the kitchens. The Duchess preceded the others to the dining room. She seated herself at Dr. Radcliffe’s right, James beside her, little Anna Webb next, and then Mr. Paulet, whose vacuous expression was quite unchanged by whatever news the Duchess had given him. Since the child, Lady Mary, was on his right, he felt no need to exert himself, and the entire meal passed without his uttering a word. Lady Lichfield sat on the Doctor’s left and Betty found herself between Francis and Charles.
There was a silence, then Betty burst out, “The moon was rising as we came in the coach but
I wonder if it might snow again.”
Charles said, “Well, ‘tis the season for it.” Francis coughed and did not bother to say anything. There was another silence, which Dr. Radcliffe broke. “Look, what’s coming in the door! We must greet our Twelfth Night cake!”
Everyone turned to see two footmen bearing an enormous creation on a silver platter. It was a tiered cake, frosted with marchpane figures -- a gold crown on top and sugared sculptures of the Three Kings and their camels around the bottom layer. The footmen solemnly deposited the cake in front of the host
They all exclaimed, the girls clapped their hands, and the Doctor, with a gesture to the musicians, began to sing.
“Now, now the mirth comes, with cake full of plums
Where bean’s the king of the sport here;
Besides we must know, the pea also
Must revel as queen in the court here.”
“How delightful!” cried the Duchess. “What a truly splendid cake! Hasten, sir, and let us find out who are to be our rulers tonight!” She seemed as full of youthful merriment and anticipation as the children were, there was no sign of ill humor about her. The Doctor cut the cake and carefully portioned out the slices with a knowing smile. Everyone duly hunted for the mystic bean and pea which would turn them into temporary royalty, according to a custom observed since the Romans had brought it to the island with Julius Caesar.
Betty crumbled listlessly through her slice, for the Duchess would certainly be Queen. Those matters were usually arranged beforehand. Great was her surprise, therefore, to find the hard green pea at the same moment that Charles sheepishly held out the bean. Everyone clapped again, even the Duchess, whose gaiety did not diminish. “We salute Your Majesties!” she cried, getting up and curtseying to Charles and Betty.
The servants brought purple velveteen robes trimmed with false ermine and gilded brass crowns which were encrusted with paste brilliants, as were the two scepters. A small dais was carried in and the young couple’s chairs placed upon it. The Doctor conducted the coronation, and made a speech which slyly hinted that perhaps this was not the only occasion in which the “King and Queen” would be seated side by side as the principal figures in a ceremony. Betty blushed. James smiled. Lady Lichfield beamed. The Duchess gave her most tinkling laugh and said, “La, dear Doctor, you are indeed a consummate master of the revels. Now surely their majesties have a command for us?”
