Текст книги "The Prince and the Quakeress "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
There were many living on far less, he might have reminded her, but he understood Miss Chudleigh’s viewpoint perfectly. When she came to London she would live in Court circles; she would make a stir in her surroundings. Of course she would. Miss Chudleigh was the girl to make a stir wherever she might be.
He had proceeded with Miss Chudleigh’s picture and each day he looked forward to those sittings; as he painted he listened to her colourful conversation—her scorns and hatred, her desires and ambitions. They were all there in the portrait for anyone who had the discernment to recognize them.
When the portrait was finished he was almost satisfied with it; she was entirely so.
‘One of us, Mr. Reynolds,’ she observed, ‘is very clever. Or perhaps it is both of us—you for painting this picture and myself for giving you such an opportunity to show your talents.’
He was amused. It was one of the best pictures he had painted to that date.
‘I want to exhibit it in London.’
Her smile was dazzling.
‘My dear Mr. Reynolds, it is exactly what I hoped you would do.’
And he had; and it had been acclaimed. His name was made. Everyone wanted their portrait painted by Joshua Reynolds. Moreover, everyone wanted to know who the outstandingly lovely subject of the portrait was.
‘Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh of Devonshire,’ he told them; and he wrote to her.
‘Your picture has created tremendous interest here in London. I think there are many who would be delighted to see the original.’
Elizabeth needed no more than that. She and her mother packed their bags and within a short time Elizabeth was in London; it was the starting-point of her extraordinary career, for she was an immediate success. Several men wanted to marry her; she selected the Duke of Hamilton as the most agreeable suitor; that romance went wrong; but Elizabeth was launched and soon had a post of maid of honour in the household of the Princess of Wales.
What had happened since then, why she had not married, was her own secret affair.
But Joshua Reynolds could imagine that it would be a startling story if it ever came to light.
And now she had been instrumental in bringing him to this strange house.
‘Mr. Reynolds, sir. Will you step this way.’
A pleasant house, comfortable, luxurious even, just the sort of house in which a wealthy nobleman would set up his cherished mistress.
He was ushered into a room, a room with a high vaulted ceiling and big windows, heavily curtained he noticed. We shall have to let in the light, was his first thought.
And she was rising to greet him. Tall, beautiful, dressed in white satin adorned with blue bows.
Charming! he thought. Beautiful...and certainly not conventionally so.
He approached her and bowed; his artist’s eye took in the oval face, the large dark eyes—some brooding secret there. The dark hair was drawn back from a somewhat high brow and she wore a cap; her dress was low cut but there was a vest of fine lace which covered her neck and ended in a frill under her chin.
Mrs. Axford, he thought. Who is Mrs. Axford?
He could not recall ever having heard the name; but that was unimportant. He knew now that he wanted to paint her.
• • •
Hannah looked forward to the visits of Mr. Reynolds. On those days when he came she would awake with a pleasurable feeling of anticipation. It was always a joy to slip into the white satin dress and she could never resist studying her reflection in the mirror and comparing it with the portrait which was rapidly growing on the canvas.
Did she really look as Mr. Reynolds saw her? She hoped so, for the effect was pleasing. She had not wanted George to see it until the portrait was completed and she was longing to show him the finished picture—yet she would be sorry, for that would be the end of the artist’s visits.
She was stimulated and perhaps a little apprehensive during sittings. Although that was not what he desired. He was always begging her to be relaxed, to imagine she was chatting with an old friend...about herself.
An old friend. She thought of chatting to Aunt Lydia or her mother. Her mother! She could never think of her mother without feelings of unbearable guilt. What a wicked daughter she had been! She pictured them now, praying for her in the dining-room where they had prayed incessantly, before all meals, first thing in the morning, last thing before going to bed.
‘Save Hannah from her wickedness. Let her repent, O Lord.’
Little Hannah would he lisping her prayers now and so would baby Anne; and she had heard from Jane that there was another baby boy named John.
Mr. Reynolds said: ‘Now you are looking too sad. We do not want sadness in the portrait, do we? At least not much. Just a little...but that is something we cannot avoid. But you are not sad all the time. Mrs. Axford?’
‘Oh no. I am very happy...sometimes.’
‘When memories don’t intrude?’
She was silent and he looked up from the canvas intently.
‘Now, Mrs. Axford, hands in lap. Have you lived long in this house?’
‘N...no. About five years...’
She would have been just past twenty when she came here. Who was the lover? Some nobleman. She was not of the Court, he knew that.
‘It is a pleasant place and not too far from London.’
‘No...not too far.’
‘I’ll warrant you visit the capital often, Mrs. Axford.’
‘No...rarely.’
‘That is strange. Most ladies cannot resist it. There is so much of interest. The theatre for one thing, do you like the theatre?’
‘I do not know. I have never visited a theatre.’
He was silent. He could not place her. There was an air of serenity about her, an air of refinement. Who was she? Who was her lover? It was necessary for him to know if he were going to paint her as he wished to. But was it? Why should he not paint her with her air of mystery, for that was how he saw her.
‘We will rest awhile, Mrs. Axford. Come and see what you think of the progress.’
She came and stood beside him.
‘Thou art a very clever artist,’ she said.
He was quick to notice the form of address. A Quakeress, he thought. Of course! Why did I not realize it before? From then on he began to think of her as the beautiful and mysterious Quakeress.
• • •
He could not tempt her to speak of herself when she so clearly did not wish to do so. Instead he found himself talking of his own life.
She was very interested and as he talked she became animated. She was living the scenes he described as surely as though she had been present when they had happened; it brought a new animation to her face.
He told her about his home at Plympton Earl in Devonshire. He talked of the beauties of Devon, the coast, the wooded hills and the rich red earth...all exciting in the artistic eyes.
‘But it was always portraits which fascinated me…people. Landscape is exciting but people are alive...I have to present one face to the world, but there is another which is perhaps truly themselves. One other? There are a thousand. A thousand different people in that one body. Think of that, Mrs. Axford.’
‘Are we all so complex, then?’
‘Every one of us. Yourself, for instance; you are not solely the charming hostess to a painter, are you? You are many things beside.’
Yes, I see. I am good and I am wicked. I’m truthful and I lie. My life is beautiful and hideous.. .’
‘And you live here in this comfortable house, a lady of fashion...’
‘Never that. How could I be when I don’t...’
He waited hopefully, but she merely added: ‘Never a lady of fashion.’
‘Yet not a Quakeress?’
‘Why did you say that?’
‘You were once a Quakeress, were you not?’
‘Yes. I betrayed it?’
‘Don’t forget I am an artist. I try to discover all I can about a sitter so that I can see her not only as the world sees her but as she really is. You look alarmed. There is no need. I am sure that I should never see anything of you, Mrs. Axford, that’s not admirable.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘I never flatter. That is not the way to produce great art.’
She fell silent and to bring back her serenity he talked about himself.
‘I always knew I wanted to be an artist. My father was a clergyman. He was master of the grammar school too. I had a religious upbringing.’
Her eyes glowed with understanding. He pictured the austere Quaker household. Poor girl, she must find it difficult to escape from such an upbringing. And what courage she must have, what a deep love she must have felt, to have risked eternal damnation—for that would be what she would have: been led to expect—by setting up house with a lover.
‘But I wanted to paint,’ he went on, ‘and at last my father understood there was no stopping me. So he sent me to London and apprenticed me there to Thomas Hudson. He was a Devon man settled in London.’
‘And you learned to paint?’
‘I learned to paint and I was happy. And when I had served my apprenticeship and thought myself a fully-fledged portrait painter I came back to Devon, settled at Plymouth Dock and started to paint portraits. But it was no use. I had to return to London. It is the only place for a man of ambition.’
‘Thou wert ambitious.’
She was interested in his progress and had not noticed that once more she had slipped into the Quaker form of address. He found it charming on her lips. How I wish I were painting her in Quaker gown and bonnet. She does not need white satin and blue bows, with beauty such as hers.
‘I was ambitious, so back to London I came, where Thomas Hudson introduced me to many artists. I joined their club...the Artists Club. It meets at Old Slaughter’s in St. Martin’s Lane. You know the place?’
‘I saw it often when I used to go...’
He waited. ‘So you lived near there?’
‘Yes, I lived near.’ She was shut up again. He wondered where the nobleman had found his little Quaker girl.
‘It was my painting of Captain Keppel which brought me many commissions. Then I went to Italy. All artists must go to Italy. Have you even been, Mrs. Axford?’
She had never left England, she told him.
‘Ah, you would love Italy. Perhaps Mr....Mr. Axford will take you one day?’
A faint shiver touched her, and he was aware of it. It was no use trying to make her talk; he must rouse the animation he wanted to see in her by talking of his own life. So he talked of Minorca, Rome, Florence, Venice...and she was enchanted by his description of these places. He described with the artist’s eye...in colours, and she seemed to understand. Then he told her of his friends, Dr. Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, the actor Garrick.
‘There is not much support for the arts from the royal family. Let us hope young George will hive I little more artistic sense and responsibility than his grandfather when his time comes.’
‘I...I think he will.’
‘They say he is not very bright, and, of course, Bute and the Princess have him in leading strings.’
‘Is that what they say?’
‘And it happens to be true. I have friends at Court. Oh well, they tell me he needs these leading reins. He’s only a boy...simply brought up...in fact, a simpleton. I wish they would teach him a little about art. I suppose they think that an unnecessary part of life. They’re wrong, Mrs. Axford. A nation’s art and literature are a nation’s strength. We need a monarch who understands this. I wish I could have a talk with the young Prince. The King is too old now, but I had heard that he had a great contempt for poetry. Poor man. I pity him Let us hope the new King will be different. For his own sake I hope so. Being a King is something more than marrying and producing children. I dare swear they’ll be marrying young George off soon. He’s of age. Time he had a wife.’
She was sitting very still and it was as though all the life was drained from her.
She was a woman of moods, he decided. And he wondered whether he had succeeded in getting what he wanted.
When he finished the picture he called it ‘Mrs. Axford, the fair Quakeress.’
He received his fee through the ubiquitous Miss Chudleigh; and after a while he ceased to ponder on the strangeness of the mysterious Quakeress.
Rule Britannia
Hannah had presented George with a son. He shared her delight and her fears. ‘If we were only married,’ he said, ‘I would be the happiest man alive.’
And she the happiest of women, she told him. But perhaps she did not deserve happiness. She thought often of her mother and the sorrow she had caused her; her uncle, too, but particularly her mother. She wondered if they still searched for her, mourned for her, prayed for her.
Dr. Fothergill, blindfolded as before, had delivered the child; but she was not so well after this second confinement as the first; and when she was less well she was apt to brood more on her sins.
George had been delighted with the picture. He told her that Joshua Reynolds was the most fashionable painter in London and people of the Court were clamouring to have him paint their portraits.
‘I doubt he will ever paint a picture so charming as that of the fair Quakeress,’ said George gallantly.
She had two children, and visits from a lover whose affection never wavered; she could have been completely happy if their union had the blessing of the Church.
It would be all I asked, she told herself.
• • •
George had to curtail his visits, for there was business to keep him occupied. Lord Bute scarcely let him out of his sight.
The King cannot last much longer,’ he told George. ‘Oh, my Prince, I want you to be ready when the time comes.’
‘I shall be, if you are beside me. Without you I should fail. I often think of what a dreadful situation I should be in if I ever had to reign without your assistance.’
Bute was delighted with such reiterated trust. It was worth the tremendous effort he had put into engendering it.
Pitt was the man of the moment. Bute pointed this out to George. The man was a giant. They had to remember that, and although they would relegate him to a minor position—Bute was determined to lead the government, that being the ultimate goal—they would continue to use Pitt.
‘Oh yes, we will use him,’ agreed George.
He was beginning to look forward to power. It would be pleasant never to have to suffer the humiliation of visits such as that one to Hampton which so rankled in his mind. He would be the King, and when he was no one would dare behave towards him as his grandfather had.
Great events were afoot. Mr. Pitt was a brilliant war leader and under him England was going to be the leading country of the world. Mr. Pitt believed it; and he was a man who always achieved his end.
But he was a just man and he was thundering in Parliament now over the execution of Admiral Byng for which shortly before the people had been clamouring; but now the deed was done they were mourning for him, calling his execution murder.
‘You perceive the unreliability of the mob,’ said Bute.
‘Hosanna, Hosanna...and shortly after crucify him.’ said George.
Bute smiled with approval. George was beginning to think for himself.
‘It is always difficult to do what the people want, went on Bute, ‘for their wants are rarely constant. Mr. Pitt rails against the injustice.’
‘He is a good man, Mr. Pitt. I remember how he defended my uncle Cumberland for being unjustly accused over Hanover. He was no friend of my uncle—and I doubt he was of Mr. Byng’s.’
George was sad thinking of Mr. Byng. Death and suffering always depressed him. He told Bute so.
‘I do not like thinking of it,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel very uneasy and in fact...quite ill. I think of Mr. Byng facing his execution. They told me how it happened. He was unafraid and he said he would not allow them to bandage his eyes. He would look right into the face of those men who had been commanded to shoot him. And then he was told that those who had been commanded to the task—for which they had no stomach—would be reluctant to do their duty while he looked on at them, so he answered: "If it will frighten them, let it be done. They would not frighten me." So then his eyes were bound and they fired and killed him. I dreamed of him sinking to the ground...in his own blood.’
‘You should not allow yourself such morbid thoughts.’
‘He was my grandfather’s subject. He might have been mine had he lived longer or my grandfather died ere this. I do not think I should have agreed to his execution. I hate death.’
‘It does Your Highness credit. But admirals cannot be accused of cowardice.’
‘Was he a coward? Was he in truth obeying orders from home...as my uncle Cumberland was. Is he the scapegoat as my uncle was?’
‘I can see,’ said Lord Bute, ‘that you have been studying these affairs with the greatest interest. You are following your mother’s advice, which is to be a King. Look at this letter which I have written to Mr. Pitt and tell me what you think of it. From now on, you and I should have no secrets from each other.’
George felt the flush stain his cheeks. He was thinking of the house in Tottenham, the two children Hannah had given him.
What would his dear friend say if he knew that his Prince was a father?
Bute was aware of the Prince’s confusion and guessed that it had something to do with the Quakeress. It was time that affair was finished. When they had him married, which would he soon, he would have to desert his Quakeress, for it was difficult to imagine George with a wife and a mistress. At the time of his marriage, at any rate, he must stop seeing the woman. Was this the time to warn him? Perhaps not. Bute was a little displeased about the Quakeress, for George had not confided in him, preferring to do so in that Chudleigh woman. Oh, what a fool he was! The idea of betraying himself to a woman like that and keeping his affair secret from Lord Bute and his mother.
No, this was not the time. It would only make him withdraw further. But they must keep him busy, give him little time to spare for his Quakeress.
He thrust the letter he had written into George’s hands.
‘Oh, my dear friend, Mr. Pitt, what dreadful auspices we begin with. And yet, thank God I see you in office. If the wreck of this crown can be preserved to our amiable young Prince, it will be to your efforts, my deal Pitt, that he must owe it. I have the greatest confidence that you will rise above all adversity, my dearest friend.
Most affectionately, Bute.’
‘Wreck of a crown...’ repeated the Prince.
‘These affairs do us no good, Your Highness. Cumberland’s disaster...Byng’s...We are low...low … low. But I have an idea that we shall soon begin to see changes.’
‘And it will be due to Mr. Pitt.’
‘Mr. Pitt is a clever man. But he is a commoner. The Great Commoner he may be, but a commoner nonetheless. He needs guidance...our guidance, but he is a great man for all that, and there is no harm in letting him know that we appreciate him.’
‘Your letter will tell him that.’
‘In a few days’ time I intend to put a suggestion to him...with Your Highness’s consent, of course.’
‘What is that?’
‘I am going to ask him to give me Newcastle’s place when the King dies.’
‘That is First Lord of the Treasury!’
‘And Your Highness does not think me capable of holding such a high post?’
‘On the contrary, I think no one will do it such honour.’
‘None could do it much less than Newcastle has done.’
‘You must have it, my dear friend. Nothing will satisfy me than that you have it.’
Bute clasped George’s hand and shook it warmly. ‘I knew I could count on Your Highness’s support. First he shall receive this letter. We will give him a chance to consider it...then I shall take an opportunity of seeing him and getting a promise from him.’
‘I shall feel so contented if you do, for then I shall know that you will be with me when I mount the throne.’
Let that day be soon, prayed Lord Bute, for when it comes I shall be ruler of this land.
• • •
Mr. Pitt was no respecter of persons. Although he was almost servile in the presence of the King and the Prince he made no effort to please anyone else.
Bute! Who was Bute? A man who owed his position to the favour he found in the Princess Dowager’s bedchamber. Unfortunately that gave him easy access to the Prince of Wales, a boy...who knew nothing of affairs. If the Prince thought he was going to govern Mr. Pitt he was mistaken.
Bute was ingratiating.
‘I have watched with growing admiration, sir, your work in the government. England has need of men such as you at this time.’
The hawk’s eyes looked down the long aquiline nose and Mr. Pitt’s hand lightly touched his tie wig. His expression was very haughty.
‘You know, sir, of the Prince’s regard for me,’ went on Bute. ‘I have his word on this. When he should attain the throne he wishes me to have Newcastle’s place.’
The eyebrows shot up. ‘That, my lord, would not be possible.’
‘Not possible! How so...if it were the King’s wish?’
‘You lack the experience.’
‘Experience is something one gains in office. I have watched affairs...’
‘Watching is not enough, my lord. Moreover, you are a Scottish Peer. Long residence here in the South has allowed this to slip your mind.’
Lord Bute was angry. He said: ‘I suppose you would consider the King’s command must be obeyed.’
‘That might be so.’
‘So if I tell you that the Prince has given his approval, what then?’
‘My lord, I would never bear the touch of command. If I were dictated to, I should resign. So, my lord, I could not give you the post you ask for and if you were to receive it, it would not be my place to give it to you, for the fact of your receiving it could only mean that you would not have it from my hands.’
Lord Bute was furious. Mr. Pitt determined. The perfect actor—as he was on most occasions and never more than in circumstances such as this—he swept off the stage; dignified as ever, holding the advantage because, vain as he was, delighting in pomp and ostentation, he was a man of honour and would never allow his personal promotion to interfere with his principles.
But Bute was his enemy from then on.
He sought the Prince and told him that on the day he became King he would have to find a way of ridding the government of that arrogant Pitt.
• • •
Pitt was triumphant. He had persuaded the King that it was to the country’s interest to provide Frederick the Great with a subsidy that he might fight England’s battles in Europe.
‘We have a small island, Sire, a small population; we need an Empire. Let Frederick take care of our commitments in Europe and we will turn the Frenchman out of Canada and India. These territories will be of more use to us than anything in Europe which is too costly to hold and will never be worth the money and effort we spend on it.’
The King was loth to send money to Frederick, but he saw Mr. Pitt’s point; and he was with him.
So very soon was the country.
The tide was turning. Victory was in the air. Clive was going ahead in India. Amherst and Wolfe were doing well in Canada.
This was Mr. Pitt’s plan and it was working. Englishmen were proud of their country. In the streets they were singing Dr. Arne’s Rule Britannia. Men congregated in the taverns to talk of great victories and Britain’s growing power beyond the seas.
In a few years the position had changed. England was no longer fighting hopeless wars on the Continent of Europe; it was building an Empire. This little island was on the way to becoming the greatest world power.
It was a great year. God save the King...and Mr. Pitt. Britannia was preparing to Rule the Waves.
The Secret Wedding
In the drawing-room in which Mr. Reynolds had painted her picture Hannah sat sewing. She no longer embroidered—a pastime she had learned from the sewing woman, for in Mr. Wheeler’s house she had never wasted her time in such a frivolous occupation. But how she had enjoyed it once she had learned! She would sit for long hours, her ears alert for the sound of carriage wheels which would announce her lover’s arrival, while her needle plied the cambric, and the reds and blues, the purples and whites grew under her hands. Now she was making clothes for her children. She had a family of two and another was on the way. She had become a fertile woman; she loved her children, but more than anyone on earth she loved the Prince.
Perhaps she had built up this love through her great need of it. She needed more than physical contact, more than constant declarations of loyalty and enduring affection; she needed to prove to herself that love such as she had could not be denied. It was her only excuse.
She spent long hours on her knees. ‘Oh God, show me how I can expiate my great sin. I will do anything, thou knowest...save one thing. I will never abandon him until he abandons me. And if he does abandon me I shall go forth into the world uncomplaining. I have loved deeply; I have been loved and my love has been fruitful. If my children are cared for, if he, my love, is happy, I would willingly sacrifice my hopes of earthly joy.’
Was it true? Vehemently she assured herself that it was; but equally vehemently she trusted she would never be called upon to prove it. Yet, she could not rid herself of her early training. She did not believe she could go on living comfortably as she had for the last five years. Reckoning would come.
‘The sins ye do by two and two, ye pay for one by one.’ She could hear Uncle Wheeler’s voice droning on in the room behind the shop where they had eaten and prayed. She could feel the roughness of the rush mat on her knees; she could see the faces of the family, palms together, eyes closed, as the candlelight flickered across their faces.
‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. Uncle Wheeler had always pronounced such utterances with particular relish.
Love, forgiveness, were words scarcely heard in the Wheeler household. She remembered that now.
Why was she morbid today? Because she was with child again? Because George’s visits were less frequent than they used to be? She must be reasonable. He was a Prince...a Prince of Wales and had now come of age. At any time he might be King. Naturally he was kept busy. There was so much to learn, he had told her.
She remembered that once he had mentioned these matters with regret; now he did so with excitement. George was changing. Was that what frightened her? George was no longer a shy boy; he was fast learning to become a ruler; and he had recognized it as his destiny. He no longer wished that he were not the heir to the throne. He was waiting...almost impatiently for the crown.
In one clear flash of understanding she saw the position clearly: George had changed and she had not.
A light scratching on the door. ‘Come in.’
‘A visitor, M’am. Your lady friend.’
It showed how few visitors she had when Jane could be so introduced. My lady friend, thought Hannah. She might have said your only lady friend.
Jane was growing plump. She was a mother now and undoubtedly the head of her household. Hannah wondered how often she reminded her husband that he owed his good fortune to her astuteness in helping to pass Hannah Lightfoot over to a very important young gentleman.
She enjoyed Jane’s visits—the one link with the old days. When Jane sat sprawled in a chair, her fingers reaching for the dish of sweetmeats which Hannah always ordered to be placed beside her, Hannah could almost believe they were back in the bedroom over the shop, talking together while they looked down on the Market.
‘I’ve brought you news...such news,’ announced Jane. ‘I wonder what it means. I’ve been wondering since I heard.’
‘I pray thee tell me.’ She slipped naturally into the old way of speech with Jane.
‘It’s Isaac Axford.’
Hannah sat up gripping the arms of her chair, she felt the child moving within her, as though uneasily.
‘What...of him?’
‘Don’t look so scared. It’s good news really. It means he’s given up the search.’
‘Jane, I pray thee tell me. Do not keep me in suspense. I believe you enjoy that.’
Jane smiled. ‘He’s married again.’
‘Isaac...married! But how can that be? He is married to me.’
‘It’s five...nearly six years since that marriage, Hannah. It’s clear he thinks it is a marriage no longer.’
‘Art thou sure of this?’
‘You don’t think I’d come here with a tale like this if I wasn’t. I’ve even talked to her...the wife I mean. I went into the shop when Isaac wasn’t there and had quite a talk with her...she’s pleased with herself. Bartlett her name was...before she changed it to Axford. Then I talked around. You know how easy it is. But you don’t, of course, but believe me it is for me. One goody to another. All master’s wives together. Oh yes, I heard Isaac Axford’s done well for himself. He’s married an heiress...Miss Bartlett she were, and she’s bringing him in all of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Very well-to-do she is and not proud with it.’
‘But he is not truly married...’
‘Oh come, now, you can’t expect a man to go without a wife for five or six years just because the first one deserted him at the altar.’
‘But even so...we were married. Does this lady know?’
‘That I did not discover. And if she did...I’ll dare swear Isaac had a good story. Marriage with the disappearing lady? Well, was it a true marriage? It was in Dr. Keith’s Marriage Mill which is illegal in any case; and then the bride never was his wife in a manner of speaking, was she? And then she deserted him. Oh, I reckon Mr. Isaac’s got a case all right.’
‘It is not that I blame him. I am solely to blame. He was ill-used. I wish him every happiness.’
‘He’s been searching for you...or pretending to...for a long time.’
‘Pretending to...!’
‘Oh, don’t ask me! There’s a lot of queer business been going on in this affair. I reckon Mr. Isaac Axford was a bit smug. Perhaps there was some as made it worth his while not to search too diligently. Isaac’s a man to look to the main chance. You see, now he’s found himself a very comfortable wife. One hundred and fifty pounds a year...very nice. I doubt not he’s been well paid for all his trouble.’
‘And...my mother...’
‘Oh, I never see her,’ said Jane uncomfortably. ‘I never get my nose in that door, you can be sure.’
‘I think of her often. I hope she is not too sad.’
‘She’ll have got over it all by now, Hannah. Besides she’s got the pleasure of knowing...’
‘Of knowing what?’
‘That her daughter is in royal hands.’
‘Oh, Jane, Jane, I sometimes wonder what will become of us all.’
